


Melting Scented Candles

by Garnent



Category: K-pop, NCT (Band)
Genre: Age Swap, Bottom Lee Taeyong, Boyfriends, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Smut, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-03-27 23:54:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 105,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13891824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garnent/pseuds/Garnent
Summary: Lee Taeyong believed high school was as bad as it would ever get. Having to hide his sexuality day in, day out, while in class and even while changing in the locker rooms. Keeping his eyes to himself was always a struggle. He'd known if anyone had found out that he was, quite frankly, obsessed with boys, he'd have said goodbye to his social life before it'd even begun. He thought high school was the worst time of his life.He could not have been more wrong.Now, at 22, his shyness and fear have caught up to him. He lives alone, he's never had much of a relationship, and he's certainly never taken anyone to bed. How can he hide his preference when all of his friends are trying to hook him up?His only solace is among the pages of books written by his favourite novelist, Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul, who works with Taeyong's publishing company, and his only action is among the pages of homoerotic novelettes written by mysterious author "Rune." What will he do when he, personally, is suddenly requested to be Chittaphon's editor, and has to spend hours daily with the attractive, loveless artist?





	1. The Scent of Cheap Booze

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone ^^
> 
> So this is my first K-Pop related work and I hope it goes well. It was inspired by "Baby Don't Stop", which I'm currently obsessed with, so I just had to write it. 
> 
> If you didn't read the tags, to clear any confusion, this story actually features an age swap, so Ten (Chittaphon) is actually OLDER than Taeyong. In this story, Ten is 24 and Taeyong is 22. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy and leave your feedback in the comments :)!

Donghae downed the last bit of Soju from the bottle. He shook his head, trying to clear the thoughts of Rowoon out of his mind. His dainty shoulders, his tapered waist, the way he speaks with such sensuality and grace, the sound of his voice like melted chocolate effortlessly addressing him with formality in a way that conveyed adoration and obedience. Rowoon would absolutely do anything Donghae told him to, and the thought enticed Donghae. Oh, the things he would do . . .

“Bend over,” he imagined himself saying. His sweet junior would gently ease himself over whatever desk or counter they could get away with at the workplace, and part his legs ever so slightly, his ears red and his skin quivering with anticipation.

“Like this, Donghae-sunbaenim?” he would ask, in his milky tone, head turned shyly to peek over his shoulder. He would gasp excitedly at the sight of Donghae undressing himself, unable to contain himself, his abdominal muscles flexing as he tossed his shirt over his head. Poor Rowoon, he wouldn’t even know what he’s in for.

Taeyong dropped the book into his lap and inhaled a long, deep breath. As much as his body itched to know more, what would happen next, he didn’t quite fancy arousal at that particular moment. Placing a bookmark, he let the thin novelette close, a blue paperback titled Don’t Come Close to Me, by Rune. Work by this mysterious author could only be found online, at hand-me-down stores, or at small book vendors profiting off unorthodox titles. The reason was that Rune wrote exclusively about men. Men who unabashedly, uncontrollably, and helplessly like to fuck men.

Being one of “those” men, Taeyong’s life had not been easy. During his teenage years, high school was his worst nightmare. Every day meant a fight to walk the halls, change in locker rooms, and attend class while hiding his utter obsession with boys. Their hair, their eyes, their style, their laughs, their charismatic smiles—it was all Taeyong wanted and couldn’t have. He’d flown more or less under the radar, for he’d had no other choice.

Now, at 22, Taeyong has long since realized high school was only the beginning. Now, he’s an adult, with adult friends, who’ve all taken women to bed and enjoyed the feeling of waking up the morning after a great night of between-the-sheets intimacy. Taeyong, contrairily, is a suffering, vanilla, grade-A, honest-to-God, inexperienced virgin. His only attention has been his right hand, and his only action has occurred on the pages of short novels written by Rune. At least in high school it was possible to hide his sexuality. In adult life, disclosing it was all he could do—except he couldn’t, and he hasn’t.

He stood up to fix himself a cup of warm green tea. Staring out his kitchen window at the busy lights of Seoul gave him a sense of longing, to be out there, hitting up women and taking them home for passionate love-making and having experiences he can actually tell people about, brag even. Alas, there he was, in his tiny apartment, incurably gay and hopelessly alone.

To distract himself from the growing need to continue Rune’s book, he clicked on the TV and flipped absentmindedly through channel after channel. He came across a talk show of which he’d seen an episode or two, Tell Us Your Secrets, where talked-about celebrities disclose personal information for the viewers’ enjoyment. He’d always thought it invasive and unnecessary, but this time, his interest was piqued.

For the celebrity featured on that week’s episode was none other than Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul, his favourite romance novelist who also happened to be signed under his publishing firm, 데이드림 출판업계 (Daydream Publishing). In person, they’d only ever crossed paths twice, once in the bathroom—awkward—and once in the break lounge. They’d never once spoken.

“So, Chittaphon, tell us,” said one of the MCs, a female with shoulder-length hair and overdone makeup, “you write about all kinds of relationships with all kinds of female characters, but what do you really look for in a woman?”

Taeyong had read enough of Chittaphon’s work to make a sound guess. Long, shiny hair, big eyes, a sweet smile. Perhaps he likes the strong silent type, like Lee Hwiyoung from Tempered Glass; or the cute, innocent type, like Yang Jisoo from Devil’s Waltz. He probably prefers skirts and dresses over long pants, and a woman who is easygoing and low-maintenance. Taeyong sighed, audibly. 

“What type of woman?” Chittaphon began, with a chuckle. “Saying ‘type,’ doesn’t that suggest that women are products? Isn’t that like saying ‘what kind of car would you buy’? Nevertheless, I see what you mean. My ‘ideal type.’ It varies, if we’re being honest. I’m lenient.”

Vague, Taeyong thought. 

Cameras focused on Chittaphon’s face. There was laughter behind his eyes as the MCs pressed further, trying to delve into his deepest inner desires. What could possibly be so funny? In a situation like that, Taeyong would be sweating buckets, and that has less to do with being gay and more to do with a fair amount of social anxiety. Whenever his friends ask him personal questions of that manner, he can feel his ears turning bright red at the very thought of talking about something so intimate out loud, and that’s when they’re not on Saturday night television!

“Let’s talk about your more . . . X-Rated titles,” suggested another MC. 

Chittaphon laughed earnestly. “X-Rated? There are a few. Which are we talking about?”

Taeyong blushed. He remembered reading some of Chittaphon’s ‘X-Rated’ work, like Same and Similar Feelings and The Bed is a Circus. Even though women were not exactly his forté, he’d been engrossed in the scenes of arduous love-making, where the male lead had the female lead wrapped around his finger . . . and other things. There was something about the way Chittaphon wrote that gave Taeyong strong images in his mind, strong enough he could imagine himself in the woman’s place.

“You write about the female body with such accuracy and knowledge,” said the MC, “this must come from experience?” 

Taeyong thought he knew the answer to that question. Chittaphon was not only one of the most famous novelists in today’s celebrity scene, he was also one of the few writers who’s actually physically attractive. Quite so, with his perfectly-structured nose and charming smile, and his eyes that were just the right amount of hooded to give a feeling of mystery while still keeping them bright. He looked more like a pop idol than a writer, but unlike pop idols, he had the liberty to take home whoever he so pleases. A man like him most definitely had ‘experience.’

“Experience?” Chittaphon chuckled. “Not enough of it, I daresay. I spend so much time behind a computer screen I don’t get out enough. If we’re being honest, I could use a little more in the way of ‘experience.’” 

The audience erupted into excited screams from thirsty fangirls. The corner of Chittaphon’s mouth perked up—he knew exactly what he was doing. Taeyong wondered if it was all nothing but fanservice. 

***

“What’d you get up to last night?” asked Johnny from across the table. He was surrounded by editing notes stacked almost higher than his head, and he didn’t look up from the draft he’d been assigned to see through to publication. 

Taeyong shrugged, click-clacking the keys of his laptop. “Not much. Regular relaxation jam sesh.”

Taeil, seated at his right with an absolute storm of papers strewn on his desk, glanced at Taeyong. “You spent a Saturday night by yourself? Don’t you have a lady?”

Taeyong’s forehead thunked against the table as he plopped his head down in frustration. “You ask me this every week, but the answer’s still no.”

Mark, bless his heart, tried to relieve the tension. “Did you guys hear about that famous author, uh, Chitta . . . something? Apparently he’s changing departments.”

Johnny snorted, unamused. “What, he’s leaving Daydream?”

“No,” Mark shook his head, “just switching departments. Apparently he’s unhappy with his editor. I don’t know what’ll happen next or if it’s just a rumor, but I wonder who’ll work with him now? Maybe one of us?”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Yuta, from his position at the photocopier. “We’re one of the lower departments. We work with smaller writers, novelettes, and authors who’re new to the trade. No way they’d give any of us a job as big as Chitta-whatever-his-name-is.”

Mark hummed thoughtfully. “I dunno. Taeyong’s been getting praise from the higher-ups lately. Apparently more than a few writers have sent in feedback saying he’s ‘easy to work with’ and has an ‘excellent eye for detail.’”

Taeyong felt a crawly feeling on his back. “What? That’s not true. Stop believing secretary gossip.”

“Uh, regardless,” Johnny scoffed, “that uppity clown has already changed editors, what, four times? He’s never happy. I hope, for Taeyong’s and all our sakes, they don’t put what’s-his-name on us. It’d just end in disaster, anyway.”

Taeyong gulped. The very idea of working with Chittaphon gave him an indescribable feeling. Being so close to him . . . He probably smells like expensive cologne and coffee, and he must be invigorating to converse with. And the thought of talking in great detail about his X-Rated novels, and how he’d want them to be just right, gave Taeyong a tingling feeling. But he wouldn’t get his hopes up.

They worked in silence for several minutes. Finally, Johnny piped up again. “Alright, I feel like I ruined the mood. Anyone want to go for drinks after we clock out? My treat.” 

Taeyong immediately shook his head to refuse. The last time he’d gone drinking with Johnny, he’d almost been coaxed into losing his V-card to a woman. Sure, drunk and at 22, it was a tempting offer, but his preference meant any attempt would end in disaster. He’d had a great time trying to explain why he wasn’t interested to his friends who think he’s straight. After that, he’d promised never again.

“No, no no,” Johnny smirked, “you spent your Saturday night alone. ‘No’ isn’t an option for you, kiddo, you’re coming.”

The rest of the day could not have gone by slow enough. He tried every excuse he could come up with—needing to get work done, wanting to get his sleep back on schedule, feeling sick—but Johnny wasn’t having any of it. He was all but dragged by the ear to Johnny’s car and belted in against his will. Every time he complained, Mark spoke loudly over him, drowning him out.

The club was like any other from the outside—neon lights, drink deals on display, a line of patrons out the door. Music blared from inside, deafening the quiet streets, making one’s butt wiggle despite one’s better judgement. Taeyong absolutely did not want to go in.

Unfortunately, they got past the door guy, into the cesspool of flashing strobe lights and sweaty bodies. Glitter was, quite literally, everywhere. Everything seemed pretty typical, except he noticed that this club had something none of the other clubs he’d been dragged to had—dancers.

These girls were scantily-clad in lace and jewels and frills, as little as possible covered by lingerie in blacks, reds, and pinks. They scoured the floor, searching for victims, and ground against shiny poles hoisted upon raised pedestals. Lights hit them at all the right angles, accentuating cleavage and rear curve, turning their hair every colour of the rainbow.

“Oh, Hell yeah,” said Johnny.

“Oh, Hell no,” said Taeyong, and turned for the door. 

Taeil grabbed him by the arm and spun him around. “Nope. You’re not going anywhere until you’ve enjoyed yourself. Johnny, drinks?”

He’d finished two before he even knew they were in his hands. Nervousness invaded his stomach every time he caught the sultry gaze of one of the dancers. He saw one coming toward him, and averted his gaze hoping she’d go away. She didn’t.

“You paid for a dance?” she asked, right in his ear.

His breath shook. “Did I?”

“You’re Lee Taeyong, right?” she murmured sweetly. “Your friends treated you, so just sit back and enjoy.”

Of course they did. Looking across the room, he caught the eyes of Johnny, giving him a thumbs-up. He downed his third drink.

Taeyong didn’t know where to look. Her face? Too awkward. Her boobs? Too creepy. Away? A bit rude. His body was so stiff he thought he’d solidify. Was that possible? To become a statue after trying hard enough? Maybe, if he became a statue, she’d go away, and his friends wouldn’t bother him anymore. That’d be nice.

Her arms wrapped around his neck, and one cold hand snaked forward to his cheek, pushing his head in her direction. He tried to not look terrified.

“You can look at me, y’know,” she giggled, grinding her pelvis against his, pressing her plump chest against his. The sensations were too foreign. Not enough bulge down below, too much bulge up top. 

Five minutes felt like five years. When she finally finished, she gave him a gentle kiss. “Did you enjoy that?” she asked.

“Yeah, thanks,” he said. He saved his sigh of relief for when she’d sashayed out of range.

Just when he was starting to enjoy being alone, his friends came and crowded him on the bench. They pushed and shoved at his shoulders, cheering encouragingly. He faked a smile.

“How was that, Casanova? Pop a big one?” Johnny asked with a wink, snuggling close to Taeyong’s side.

“Pop a . . . what?” he mumbled.

Johnny rolled his eyes. “A ‘big one.’ Y’know, here,” he said, and before Taeyong knew it his hand was right between his legs. Johnny’s eyes widened when he discovered that Taeyong was very, very . . . soft.

He downed his fourth drink.

“Man, what? How’d you keep it on lock? She was hot, dude. Hottest girl here by far,” said Johnny. His hand was still nestled comfortably in Taeyong’s crotch. It didn’t seem like it was moving anytime soon.

Taeyong chuckled nervously. Admittedly, as annoying as he is, Johnny wasn’t bad-looking at all. Taeyong certainly wouldn’t mind Johnny touching him under different circumstances, but at the moment it was compromising.

“I dunno. I guess she’s just not my type?” he squeaked, trying to shimmy away from Johnny’s hand and his probing eyes.

“You say that about every girl we throw at you!” Taeil sighed, exasperated. “I’m starting to think you just don’t like women.”

Bingo, Taeyong thought. He caught Johnny’s questioning gaze. “What?” he sputtered. “No, I just like . . . real women. Not, y’know, strippers, I guess? I’m just not comfortable . . .”

“Boy, what a prude,” Johnny teased, finally removing his hand and meeting Taeyong’s flat expression. “Who doesn’t like strippers? Ah, to each their own, I guess.”

***

The blare of his alarm was an unwelcome addition to his morning. Covered in blankets, surrounded by fluffy pillows, sunlight streaming through his window . . . none of that could be appreciated due to the pounding behind his eyes.

“Jesus . . .” he groaned, smacking his clock so hard it fell off the nightstand. After five, he’d lost count of how many drinks he’d had last night, and if his memory doesn’t fail him, he’d danced until close to two o’clock in the morning. Following the fiasco with the dancer, Mark had edged him to let loose, and he’d shaken off all his concerns on the floor. Now, his concerns were the aches and pains in his legs and the horrible throbbing in his head.

He considered calling in sick, but he knew Johnny would be there, doing his work just fine. Taeyong didn’t want to be called a ‘sissy.’

Not trusting himself to drive, he took the trains to work, trying to ignore the feeling of his blood pumping at his temples. Okay, so he doesn’t hold his liquor well. Duly noted.

“He’s alive!” said Yuta when he walked into the workroom. Everyone was seated around the table, coffees laid out and the day’s work already started. 

“You’re late, soldier,” said Johnny, “the director came looking for you. Said he had a ‘proposition’ for you. I’ll go let him know you’re here. Look busy, everyone.”

Johnny left the workroom, returning minutes later with the director trailing behind. He seemed tense, but was trying to seem relaxed, his shoulders tight but his hands in his pockets. 

“Taeyong,” he said, his eyes warning ‘don’t be late again,’ “I’ve someone who wants to meet you. He’s waiting in the break lounge now—shall we?”

Taeyong nervously followed the director, the break lounge seeming miles away when really it was only one floor up, the silence stretching on forever. Was he obviously hungover? Could the director tell? Was he about to be fired? Promoted?

The break lounge was empty besides three people—two ladies from Department 2 making their morning coffees and chatting, and a very striking figure seated at one of the tables. He was reclined gracefully at a chair, sipping elegantly from a small cup filled with translucent greenish liquid—green tea? He was dressed like a pop idol, his side profile envy-inducing. Taeyong recognized him immediately, and his heart skipped a beat.

“Mr. Leechaiyapornkul, he’s here,” said the director, prompting the man to lift his head and cast a blinding smile in their direction.

“Great! Lee Taeyong, correct? Have a seat, I have something to discuss with you.”


	2. The Scent of Expensive Cologne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!!
> 
> I got some wonderful feedback on the last chapter so thank you all so much! I was so surprised at how well-received this story was already, especially after my last published work never really took off. Thank you all for enjoying and I hope to keep updating as quickly as I can!
> 
> Enjoy this new chapter ^^

“Wait, so let me get this straight,” Taeyong interrupted Chittaphon’s long string of honeyed words. The author had a way of saying way more than he needed to to make a point, and it was easy to get lost in his endless pool of detail. “You want me—a member of a lower department—to be your new editor?”

Chittaphon’s face up close was more ethereal than Taeyong was ready for. His eyes were perfect half-moon shapes, twinkling brightly with an excitement that couldn’t be named. He’d been right about one thing—Chittaphon does smell like expensive cologne, but not like coffee. Win some, lose some.

“I’ve heard so much about you!” said Chittaphon with a big smile. How was it possible to have teeth so immaculately white? “My previous editor was . . . Well, in fairness, he was good at his job. Diligent, well-spoken, but bad listening skills. Goodness, he gave me a hard time. Seemed to always forget these are my books he’s editing . . . Anyway, I decided I needed a new one, and so I did some digging, and there was one name that kept coming up: Lee Taeyong. ‘Easy to work with,’ ‘an excellent listener,’ ‘always full of insightful ideas and advice.’ If what they say is true, you’re exactly what I’m looking for. So, what do you say? Shall we team up?”

Taeyong’s head was swimming. He imagined long, extensive work sessions, leaning in close to Chittaphon and listening to him explain his process in great detail. His voice had a special quality to it that Taeyong thought he could listen to it forever. He imagined the amazing work they’d get done together, as a team, and going for drinks to celebrate a successful publication. But he couldn’t just think about himself.

“I . . . would have to consult my team,” he answered, worriedly watching Chittaphon’s expression deflate. “You’d be working with them too.”

“Of course,” Chittaphon said, finishing his tea. “You should have time to think it over. Do be hasty, however. I’ve a new novel that must be published soon, and it still requires a final glance.”

Taeyong wondered how someone with such a lithe and graceful figure could exude so much power over him. There was something about Chittaphon’s delicate hands, dainty wrists, and gentle gestures that made Taeyong want to see just how strong he could be.

Shaking off the ideas crawling into his head, he bowed carefully. “I will go speak with them, then. You should expect an answer promptly.”

Taeyong barely even felt the travel back to the Department 5 workroom. His mind buzzed with thoughts of working with Chittaphon, editing his work, having lengthy conversations over meals about the author’s works-in-progress, spending hours daily with him. He wasn’t sure what he was excited for most—getting to edit books written by a critically-acclaimed novelist, the potential increase in salary, or Chittaphon himself?

“Ha!” Johnny laughed aloud at Taeyong’s proposition. “Mark, you were right after all. What’s-his-face really ran out of places to go, and he’s come to us. What a joke. Tell me you’re not actually considering this, Yongie?”

Taeyong frowned. “Well, I—”

“Come on Johnny, you sourpuss,” said Taeil, tossing a balled-up piece of paper at Johnny’s forehead. “Why you gotta be like that? You’ve never even spoken to the guy, what makes you think he’s so bad?” 

Johnny huffed audibly. “I’m just ticked off. That clown changes editors like he changes clothes, like they mean nothing to him. Now, he’s only come to us because he’s run out of options. Isn’t that insulting? I’d rather not work at all than be some self-entitled prick’s last resort.”

“You don’t know that . . .” Yuta mumbled.

“I do know that,” Johnny swore. 

“Regardless!” Taeil raised his arms and drew the attention of the group. “Taeyong was the one who was requested personally. Ultimately, the decision is his to make. I trust his judgement. I’m fine either way.”

“Me too,” said Mark.

“Me three,” said Yuta.

Johnny scoffed incredulously, but reluctantly caved. “Oi vey . . . Fine, alright? I’ll work with that obnoxiously-long-name bastard if I must. I better get paid extra.”

***

Taeyong returned home with a headache, even worse than the one he’d woken up with. He hadn’t expected to be handed such a big decision. Part of him felt like Johnny was right, and he was only being used . . . still, working with Chittaphon would be the ultimate privilege . . . but what if he upsets Johnny?

He needed to unwind. With so many pent-up and colliding emotions swimming in his chest, that didn’t seem possible. What would his friends do?

He thought of the stripper, of her pelvis against his, and he blushed. Certainly for them she’d be an excellent stress-reliever. However, for Taeyong, she just didn’t fit the bill.

Taeyong trudged to his room and flipped the switch, bathing the space in hideous yellow light. He rummaged under his bed for the cardboard box filled with Rune novelettes, and sifted through title after title to find the one he was looking for: The Dancer.

Taeyong settled on his bed and leaned against the wall, flipping to a specific scene. The male lead, Minhyuk, who thinks he’s straight, goes to a lounge and witnesses a sexy display by a male performer, and begins to question himself. 

“ Minhyuk watched the stage in awe, at the boy who was likely a few years younger than he and was positively shining. All the jewels hanging from his scarcely-clothed body winked as they reflected the lights, flashing in his eyes and creating a lovely twinkling spectacle. The boy’s hips were far too feminine, Minhyuk thought, swinging side to side and whirling in tantalizing circles, pushing out the curve of his supple behind. His palms broke into a cold sweat as his eyes scanned upwards to see—he was being watched, too. ”

Taeyong let his eyes flutter closed. He placed himself back beneath the dancer, except this time, her place was taken by the boy—Seyoon—from the story. He saw Seyoon’s soft black hair hanging in his eyes, which gazed at Taeyong with a desperate thirst. He felt Seyoon’s pelvis grind against his, wonderfully plush as opposed to the female dancer, and their chests came together. Seyoon’s breath fanned across Taeyong’s skin, and he shivered.

His jeans were suddenly very tight. Quickly, he unbuttoned them, feeling a sensation similar to letting one’s stomach puff out after Thanksgiving dinner. He shimmied his pants down to his thighs, reddening at the sight of the large wet spot on his briefs. It didn’t take much, did it? 

Taeyong let his eyes close again, and his warm palm pressed against his stomach, just shy of the elastic of his briefs. He felt the dancer against him again, grinding, sweaty, panting in his ear. But when they pulled apart, the gaze he met was not Seyoon’s. He twitched eagerly beyond his will.

Chittaphon tilted his head back and stooped over him, bringing their mouths only millimeters apart. His breath tasted like matcha and breath mints, his heft adamant as he laid his weight in Taeyong’s lap, fully straddled. His hands were smooth and cold, trailing up Taeyong’s shirt, a fingertip circling gently around a nipple. Chittaphon pressed closer, and it was clear he was hard as well—Taeyong couldn’t believe the arousal that pooled in his stomach at the feeling of his . . .

“Fuck! Jesus—!” his body convulsed, wrenching him from his sweet fantasy. When he came to, he laid eyes upon the mess he’d made on his hand and all up his abdomen. It took him only moments to realize what he had just done.

Taeyong’s cheeks flushed bright red. He rushed to the small bathroom down the hall and doused his heated hands in water, scrubbing vigorously to wash the shame off. What was he thinking? Imagining a highly-respected colleague in such a filthy way . . . it was exhilarating, and it felt so good . . .

He slapped himself. Enough! Chittaphon is a professional, idolized businessman, not a stripper in a downtown club—as enticing as that thought might be. He imagined Chittaphon onstage, in a loose, low-cut shirt and tight ripped jeans, heeled suede boots on his feet and his hair greased with sweat. He’d wear all kinds of semi-androgynous jewelry, like rings and earrings and a studded choker. He would dance like the world was watching, body possessed by rhythm and sex appeal, hips swaying and shoulders popping, eyes alight with his control over the room.

Taeyong sunk to the floor. Goodness, what an image. His gay heart pounding, he resigned himself to an uncertain amount of time spent on that floor, mind searching for other things to think about. Perhaps he needs to sleep.

***

“Jesus, someone’s tired,” Johnny said upon arrival at the workroom. Taeyong had clocked in an hour early and had already chugged two cups of office coffee, sorely realizing that no amount of foundation would cover the bags under his eyes.

“Can you tell?” he groaned, planting his face onto the pile of papers in front of him. Needing a distraction had led him to finishing an alarming amount of overdue paperwork, but one form still remained blank: Chittaphon’s editor application form, on which he was to write his answer and submit it to the director. It lay ignored off to the side of his pile, haunting his periphery.

Mark gave Taeyong a worried look. “You look . . . stressed. Are you okay?”

“Have you made a decision about that guy’s offer?” Yuta asked sunnily, taking a seat at the table.

Taeyong squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. “I’m going to get more coffee.”

They watched him go, exchanging confused glances between them and troubled looks at the two finished cups already on his desk, among all the work they thought he’d never finish. 

“Think he’s okay?” asked Taeil.

“Far from,” said Johnny.

Taeyong made it to the break lounge and began fixing himself another mug of $1 coffee. Behind his eyes were the endless worries and inhibitions he faced, and it didn’t occur to him that perhaps he should be reusing these mugs instead of stacking them up. Oh, well.

“Hey there.”

Taeyong started and gracefully spilled the cream he was pouring. He turned with a look of annoyance to his right, only to dissolve into anxiousness when he regarded the speaker. Chittaphon leaned elegantly against the counter, one elbow propped, head tilted at a sly angle. His mouth was fixed into a pursed smile and his eyes were squinted just so to give him a rather sheepish look.

“H-Hi,” Taeyong blubbered.

Chittaphon chuckled gently—oh, what a gorgeous laugh! “Tired, I see?” he asked, almost apologetically. “Sorry I startled you. Here.”

Taeyong took the napkins he was handed and mopped up the spill, but he couldn’t look Chittaphon in the eyes. Even though there was no logical way that the author could know about his dirty fantasy, Taeyong still felt like a cornered animal.

“Have you given it any thought?” Chittaphon asked, with an expectant grin, like he just knew Taeyong would accept. “I know we don’t fully know one another, but I sincerely feel we’d make an excellent team, you and I.”

Taeyong hummed nervously. “I’m . . . still thinking about it,” he mumbled, “my team is divided. Now, if you’ll excuse—”

“Is something the matter?” Chittaphon was suddenly giving him a look of great concern. “I know I was only joking a moment ago, but you really seem tired. Did you not sleep? Is something troubling you?”

No I did not and yes there is, Taeyong thought. “It’s nothing, I’m just very busy at the moment. Please, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going.”

Without another holdup, Taeyong rushed out. He cringed at his poor display—Chittaphon has no way of knowing about the thoughts in Taeyong’s head, so what is he even worried about? Nonetheless, he couldn’t even look Chittaphon in the face. How pathetic.

He spent the rest of the day binge-drinking coffee and on the verge of frustrated tears. By the end, he’d finally filled out Chittaphon’s proposal form with the answer he knew he had to give and submitted it to the director. What’s done is done, he thought. 

He didn’t sleep well that night, either.


	3. The Scent of Aloe Vera

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!!
> 
> Thank you again for all your wonderful feedback, it really makes writing this worth it! I will try to update as often as I can but I am also juggling school and online courses and studying Korean... Oof. I usually write most during my free block every second day at school. Please try to be patient with me :)
> 
> Because I don't want to spoil anything while this story progresses, I will be adding tags as I go along, so don't be alarmed as the tags/relationships lists gradually get longer.
> 
> Also, another note, I've aged up many of the NCT members for the sake of the story. Because they were all supposed to have gone to Uni together, it only makes sense that they'd be the same age. Thus, all of the NCT members are 22 (like Taeyong) unless stated otherwise (except Chittaphon, who like I said before is 24.)
> 
> Thank you all for reading and I hope you enjoy this chapter ^^

Taeyong was in the printer room the following morning, printing copies of a finished product that would promptly be sent to Department 1. His shoulders felt heavy with the answer he’d submitted yesterday, and he constantly doubted if he’d made the right decision.

The door to the small room opened, then closed. “Oh, good. You’re here.”

Taeyong’s heart sank into his butt. He knew that voice, pitched and tonal, laced with a Thai accent. He spoke Korean like a foreigner, the sounds carried on longer than native speakers would carry them, but his diction and vocabulary was superb.

He turned. Leaning against the door, restricting exit, was Chittaphon, dressed in a loose black button-up and jeans tighter than Taeyong’s clenched fists. His feet were arched at least two inches off the ground, dressed in leather Chelseas with belt straps and a fashionable gold strip on the heel. He’d even put on makeup—modestly, of course.

“I got your form,” said Chittaphon, advancing. Taeyong squished himself against the printer, biting his lip. The author came so close he could smell the green tea on his breath.

“Please reconsider!” Chittaphon’s eyebrows turned up in a begging expression, and he pouted. “I can’t even describe the disappointment when I saw you’d declined! I just can’t let it go so easily.”

Taeyong chuckled awkwardly, pressed against the printer and faced with Chittaphon’s pouty lips, which—oh, Heavens—had gloss on them. He felt his forehead break a sweat.

“I just, uh, I thought that, well, there’s got to be an editor better suited for you and your work . . .” he tried, earning himself an incredulous smirk.

“Nonsense,” said Chittaphon. “I’ve spoken to writers you’ve worked with. They say you’re wonderful. I believe the two of us could truly make magic together. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted something so badly before!”

Taeyong gulped. The meaning of ‘want’ could so easily be twisted for his playful enjoyment.

“You’re exaggerating,” he said quickly, shaking off the sudden thought of Chittaphon’s hands crawling up his skin. 

“Okay, maybe I am a little, I did work tooth and nail to get my career of the ground, I wanted that pretty badly. Oh, and Sechskies tickets, those were a big want of mine in my teen years,” Chittaphon laughed. “Still, we would make an excellent team, I’m certain of it. I urge you to reconsider.”

Taeyong messed with the hem of his shirt. Chittaphon had very subtle, dainty sparkles on his eyelids, bringing attention to the way he looked so genuinely at Taeyong. 

“I . . . could give it more thought,” he finally said, bringing a gleeful smile to Chittaphon’s face. His eyes became lovely crescent moons, and he clasped his hands together at his chest.

“Thank you,” he said, politely despite their age difference of two years. “And sorry for cornering you. You can get back to work now.”

Chittaphon moved aside so Taeyong could pass. He rushed out as fast as he could without looking like he was rushing, printed papers in hand. Taeyong tried not to think about Chittaphon’s glazed, pouty lips, or his sparkling eyes, or his perfect jawline. He pushed forth to the workroom, aggressively thinking about the taste of fried chicken.

“You what? Really?” Johnny exclaimed, eyebrows raised. He brought a palm forth and pressed it to Taeyong’s forehead, checking his temperature. “Are you feeling alright?”

Taeyong swatted him away. “I’m fine, I just made a decision. It’s what you wanted, right?”

Johnny scoffed incredulously. “Well, yeah, I wanted you to decline, but everyone else was vouching for you to accept. I was sure you’d take majority. Plus, you seem quite enamored with that guy—if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were smitten.”

“Smi— Hah, what?” Taeyong swiped his hand through the air to dismiss the idea. “No way. I respect him as an author but . . . Anyway, I’m not so sure about my decision. He cornered me in the printer room to ask me to reconsider, so—”

“Wait, hold the phone,” Mark stopped him, “Chit . . . Chitta . . . Por . . .? Er, that guy, you’re saying he went out of his way to ask you to be his editor again?”

Yuta whistled. “Man, now you pretty much have to accept. Sounds like he’s real keen on having you. I think you should cave.”

“Either way,” Johnny waved everyone away from Taeyong, “you coming to my place for drinks?”

“Absolutely no—”

“I can’t, I gotta get to work early tomorrow for this meeting,” Yuta interrupted him.

Johnny leaned closer to Yuta and whispered, “Sicheng is gonna be there.”

Yuta perked up all of a sudden and his face flushed pinker, and suddenly Taeyong didn’t feel like the only ‘mo. “Si-Sicheng? He’s coming? You’re sure? Then, I guess, I mean, I can spare a couple hours?”

“Attaboy!” said Johnny, clapping Yuta on the back. “Also, Jaehyun said he’d make an appearance, Doyoung’s coming, and—who else RSVP’d?—oh, Lucas said he’d show.”

Taeyong groaned. Every time, he says he’ll never go drinking with Johnny again, and every time he ends up doing it anyway. But how could he pass up seeing some old buddies from uni? 

And so, by the end of work, they’d all piled into Johnny’s Civic and were well on their way. Johnny’s parents were both Chicago-based business owners, and had bought him a high-end apartment to live in while he works in Seoul, meaning he only had to pay electric, water, and 25% of the rent. Drinking parties at Johnny’s were a commonplace, and they were about the only time Taeyong got to see the old squad from their university days.

“Shit, Mark, that you?” hollered Lucas as soon as he walked in the door. “Did you have a growth spurt?”—he gasped—“Did Markie-poo finally hit puberty?!”

Mark shoved him but was nonetheless embraced in a hug, which was really just him being engulfed in Lucas’s six-foot frame. Jaehyun and Doyoung had already broken into the drinks, clinked their shot glasses together, and tossed them back like Tylenol. Sicheng and Yuta were nowhere to be seen, but Taeyong decided not to think too much about it.

“Taeyongiiiieee~” a drunken Jaehyun came stumbling up to him about an hour later. He was peacefully reclined against a wall off to the side, avoiding drawing too much attention—especially from Johnny. 

“Hi, Jaehyun,” Taeyong caught him by the shoulders and held off his embrace, “what’s up?”

Jaehyun giggled. “Taeyongie,” he mumbled, “Johnny says come, we’re doing . . . we’re doing . . . Just come!”

Taeyong was dragged by the wrist to the living room, where everyone was seated in a circle on the floor. Realizing he wasn’t nearly drunk enough for whatever was about to go down, he grabbed himself another bottle of Soju.

Lucas had Mark, more or less against his will, in his lap, and had the rosy cheeks of someone generously buzzed. Taeil and Johnny seemed sober enough, but then again they could hold their liquor better than anyone. Doyoung and Jaehyun were absolutely smashed, Jaehyun swaying side-to-side and Doyoung fighting to keep his eyes open. Yuta and Sicheng had rejoined the group—seemingly on short notice, as Yuta was wearing Sicheng’s Supreme hoodie and Sicheng’s lips were puffy and his hair looked like it’d been through a hailstorm.

“Okay, Taeyong, I’m sure you’re wondering why you’ve been summoned,” Johnny began. 

Taeyong took a long, gulping swig from the bottle, then wiped his mouth. “Yeah, lay it on.”

“This is an intervention,” said Johnny. “You’re a 22-year-old, fertile, horny man but you haven’t stuck your dick in anything yet.”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re incredibly obscene?” Taeyong asked, then took another swig. He crossed his fingers—come on, happy buzz!

Johnny smirked. “It’s been brought to my attention. Anyway, we’re here to tell you what you’re missing. Maybe it’ll inspire you.”

“Please, for the love of God, don’t do that,” Taeyong squeezed his eyes shut.

“Lucas,” Johnny began, “any stories?”

“Sure thing,” Lucas grinned proudly, setting Mark free and letting him crawl off his lap. “Recently I broke up with my girlfriend because she had crazy commitment issues, but before that—hoo! She worked magic in bed. She always knew exactly what I liked, all the good spots, all the best motions. One in a million, that one.”

Taeyong tipped the bottle back again, but nothing came out. Where did all his Soju go?

“Okay, Yuta,” Johnny attacked next, and Yuta’s eyes went wide. “A little birdie told me”—with a glance at Taeil—“that you got blown very recently. Elaborate.”

Sicheng pulled his baseball cap down further to shield his face, but it was clear the tips of his ears were beet red. Yuta gulped visibly and looked like he had a severe case of cottonmouth.

“Well, uh, yeah,” Yuta tried, wincing when his voice cracked. “Um. Yeah.”

Johnny huffed audibly and rolled his eyes. “I said elaborate. What did it feel like?”

“It was, uh, well it— hmn,” Yuta struggled, his cheeks growing ruddy patches, and he dropped his voice to a whisper, “it was really fucking good.”

“Excellent,” said Johnny, with an overly-pleased grin. “Now, how about Jaehy—”

“I’ve heard enough!” Taeyong stopped him, plugging his ears. “That’s enough. I get it. I’ll lose my virginity when I lose it, okay?”

Mark laughed skeptically. “You’ve been saying that forever. We know you’ve wanted to lose it ever since Johnny lost his first at uni, remember? You were so jealous. We’ve been trying to help you but nothing we do works.”

Taeyong dropped his head. “That’s because—”

“We know you’re shy, Yongie,” Johnny gently massaged his shoulder. “It ain’t easy taking someone to bed for the first time. But this is painful to watch, man. If you don’t lose it in like, the next three months, I think I’ll go crazy.”

“Fine, then!” Taeyong threw his arms up. “I will lose it in the next three months. Mark my words. I’ll even bet on it.”

Johnny raised an eyebrow, amused. “Bet on it? What’ll you bet?”

Taeyong leaned in close to Johnny’s face, raw seriousness in his drunken eyes. “If I don’t lose it myself in the next three months, I’ll earnestly let you guys take over and have sex with any girl you give me. Just let me try by myself.”

At the time, his Soju-poisoned brain had thought that was a good idea. Easy enough, right? Just have sex with someone within the next three months. That’s roughly ninety days—a long enough time, right? 

When he awoke on Johnny’s couch the next morning, head pounding and face scarred with pillow creases, it dawned on him that he now had a time crunch of ninety days to do what he couldn’t in twenty-two years. In twenty-two years, he’d only gone so far as a couple hot make-out sessions and, yeah, one of his kissing buddies had felt him up—one time!

Johnny threw his pants at him, which—apparently—he had discarded at some point in the night. Groaning, he turned over and began pulling them over his legs. Thank God work doesn’t start for—

Ten minutes?! He saw the clock on Johnny’s stove, flashing 8:20 A.M. In his sudden frenzy, he tumbled off the couch and pulled his pants on so fervently they almost ripped, and not in a fashionable way. Johnny watched the whole scene unfold, not lifting a finger to help. 

“I’ll drive everyone to work, don’t worry,” said Johnny, arms crossed and face looking smug. “Yuta and Sicheng already left, Doyoung and Jaehyun are asleep in my bed. MY bed.”

Taeyong collected the stuff he’d left strewn all over Johnny’s place—keys, keys, where are his damn keys?! He threw everything in his shoulder bag and helped Lucas carry Mark to the car. Taeil and Johnny were, annoyingly, perfectly unscathed.

Taeyong took the front seat beside Johnny while Taeil and Lucas sat on either side of Mark in the backseat, keeping him upright. Most of the ride was spent in silence, until Johnny pulled into the underground parking at the publishing agency.

“Three months. That’s ninety days,” said Johnny, warningly but with a playful grin. “You have until June the 12th, otherwise you fuck whoever I give you. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure she’s your type, but you promised. No backing out.”

“It sounds like you have no faith in me,” said Taeyong, with a chuckle that made it seem light-hearted when really he was terrified.

“I don’t,” said Johnny, flatly.

Taeyong, once again, spent his day drowning his worries and his headache in $1 coffee from the break lounge. He was focused on the first draft of a new novelette by Hwang Hee Jin, a young upstart author who’d just recently signed with Daydream. He was amidst pouring himself his fourth—fifth? Sixth?—mug when the serenity of the lounge was disrupted by the door opening.

“Ah, Lee-ssi,” said the disturber, striding in with the sunny expression of a morning person. In his hand was a steaming travel mug with the top off, while his other hand bobbed a tea bag gently up-and-down in its contents. He wore slim-fit, but not quite ‘homosexual-skinny’ jeans, washed a worn blue, and a long white shirt under a vintage team varsity jacket. His face was bare, save for a gentle touch of gloss on his lips—or perhaps that was just moistness from the tea.

“Hi, Chittaphon-nim,” he said grudgingly, in the same jeans he’d been wearing two days in a row and a hoodie that probably smelled like B.O. His hair was so atrocious he didn’t dare check it in a mirror, and his eye bags were so large they’d charge him extra on an airplane. 

“Sleep well?” Chittaphon asked. Clearly, he had not taken a close enough look.

“Well enough,” Taeyong lied. 

“I hate to bother you again,” Chittaphon began, leaning against the counter by the coffee machine. He smelled like body lotion and moisturizer, Aloe Vera and sweet coconut. “Have you perchance changed your mind?”

Taeyong sighed loudly and massaged his temple. “Yeah, fine. My team is in agreement that we should make an arrangement. So, I guess, scrap the other form and make a new one. I’ll formally accept.”

“Yes!” Chittaphon said giddily, his eyes becoming those adorable sparkling moon-shapes again and his lips stretching into a lovely smile. “We should meet tomorrow to discuss my work-in-progress that is nearing its publication date. Here, let me give you my digits.”

Taeyong felt his heart thump as Chittaphon came close and pulled out his phone, a sleek white Samsung, the newest model. He showed Taeyong his number, displayed onscreen, and waited while Taeyong entered it in his contacts.

“Text me so I can get your deets. Later!” Chittaphon waved behind him as he left, a pep in his step, pleased with his accomplishment. 

That night, Taeyong stayed awake in bed, his phone brightly glaring in his eyes, staring at the brand new text conversation that he’d given the colour pink. He couldn’t describe the feeling in his chest.

3월 12일, 2시 34분  
안녕하세요 태용이에요 (Hello it’s Taeyong)

3월 12일, 2시 35분  
안녕! (Hi!)


	4. The Scent of Pantene

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!!
> 
> Wow, I'm so excited about how much this story is taking off. Over 100 Kudos and nearly 1,000 hits? And we're only on chapter 4?? Crazy!!
> 
> I love reading all your comments, it's the highlight of my day, so thank you all so much :)
> 
> I recently discovered there's someone who actually works as an editor reading this story, and now I'm a little stressed about my depiction of an editing company being inaccurate, because I've never actually worked as an editor or in a publishing company. So I apologize if anything seems a bit fetched.
> 
> Enjoy this chapter!! ^^

3월 13일, 1시 56분  
내가 왔어~ (I’m here~)

Taeyong observed the message for a few moment. They’d been awaiting Chittaphon’s arrival for a long time, seated around their table in the workroom and tapping their nails anxiously to rhythms only they each knew. 

“He’s here, guys,” Taeyong sighed, “look alive.”

They watched the door of the workroom open and an overloaded author come stumbling in, carrying stacks of papers in disarray atop a suitcase he’d made into a tray of sorts. He wore navy distressed jeans and a striped button-up tucked halfway, and black Converse high-tops with the laces undone. Barely held between two fingers was his phone, still on, open to the short text conversation with Taeyong.

“Whoof! Sorry to make you guys wait,” said Chittaphon, dumping his stuff in a pile on the table and pushing up his sleeves. His chest was heaving and he seemed worn out, but behind his eyes was a strange energy Taeyong had never seen before.

Johnny seemed standoffish, but he approached and held out his hand. “I’m Seo Young Ho, but nobody calls me that. Call me Johnny.”

Chittaphon reached out to shake Johnny’s hand, and Taeyong noticed on his wrist he wore loose bracelets behind an expensive watch, which was ticking forty-five minutes behind schedule—Taeyong suspected that must be the reason for the delay.

“I’m Moon Tae Il. You know Taeyong already, obviously,” Taeil gestured around the room. “That’s Nakamoto Yuta, and that’s Mark Lee. It’s a pleasure to work with you.”

Chittaphon laughed heartily. “The pleasure’s all mine! Now, I scrambled this morning to get all of my notes together. Shall I quickly go over my latest novel? It’s set to publish by the end of this month, and I just need one last look-through with an editing team before it’s declared ready.”

Everyone took a seat at the table and Johnny gestured for Chittaphon to go ahead. He sifted through his papers for the manuscript, a massive wad of sheets inside a 5” ring binder, and held it up.

“It’s called ‘I See the World in Black and White,’” he began, eyes wide with excitement. “It’s about a woman, Ko Jin Hwan, who suffers from severe depression, and all the adventures she goes on without ever leaving her bed. It’s actually quite sad.”

Yuta leaned forward. “She goes on adventures without going anywhere? So, it’s all happening inside her head, then?” 

“Precisely,” Chittaphon winked. “She’s achieved such a state of dissociation that she’s trapped within her own mind. She goes and meets the ‘love of her life’—who turns out to be her childhood crush who died—all the while her family and friends are begging her to get out of bed.”

“Does she die in the end?” Mark asked.

“Yes. She returns to the real world less and less as the story progresses, until she never returns. Really, what happens is she falls into a coma due to lack of self-care, and the doctors don’t save her,” Chittaphon finishes. Johnny whistled in disbelief. 

“The director should be sending you all a PDF of the full manuscript today. Please try to read it and include your critiques. All edits must be finished before April!” the author instructed. Taeyong caught Johnny rolling his eyes and puffing out his cheeks in a “je suis fini” breath of air.

They continued to work mostly in silence, save for the occasional question or request to pass a utensil across the table. Taeyong had gotten through eight chapters by the time the clock struck 4:00, and he was brimming with the excitement of getting to read a highly-anticipated novel weeks before anyone else. He had three pages worth of notes, and by 4:30 he’d begun going over them with the author himself.

He tried to simply focus on explaining his notes and his thoughts, not the sound of Chittaphon’s breathing or the smell of his shampoo. He tried not to be distracted by the light that reflected off Chittaphon’s ear piercings, or the way his lips fit around the rim of his mug every time he sipped his tea, or the dainty sweep of his eyelashes every time he blinked. 

Chittaphon edged closer, leaning into Taeyong’s words, listening with his whole body and considering his every suggestion. Taeyong could feel the tingle where their shoulders were almost touching, their clothes brushing against each other with every movement, the beat of his heart thrumming in his ears so loudly he could hardly hear anything else.

By 6:00, Taeyong had sweat through his deodorant, and was grateful when Chittaphon stood up and stretched his arms high above his head. Taeyong absolutely did not look at where his shirt rode up and exposed a light trail of feathery hairs leading down from his belly button.

“Everyone, good work today,” said Chittaphon, leaning against the table on his palms. “I say we should celebrate our first successful day together. Who’s up for dinner tonight? My treat!”

Johnny walked up and clapped Chittaphon on the shoulder. “You know,” he said, “I wasn’t sure about you at first, but you’re all right.”

“Sorry, I can’t,” said Yuta, packing up his things. “I . . . already have plans for dinner tonight.”

“With Sicheng?” Mark teased.

“No!” Yuta said defensively. “Er . . . maybe. Yes.”

Everyone else followed Chittaphon down to the parkade, arguing loudly over what food to order. Taeil wanted pork belly, Johnny argued for chicken, and Mark split the vote with his suggestion of jajangmyeon. Chittaphon held his hands up, said he’s paying so he decides where they go, and then chose Pad Thai. Johnny muttered something ridiculous about racism under his breath.

Taeyong was invited to sit in the passenger’s seat in Chittaphon’s white Bentley SUV. The brown leather seats were smooth and comfortable enough to sleep in, and the whole vehicle held that ‘new-car’ smell despite the air freshener hanging from the mirror. Chittaphon checked that everyone’s seatbelts were on—yes, mom—and put on sunglasses. Taeyong tried to hide his amused smile.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Chittaphon waved his fork in the air, causing Mark to flinch, “you’re saying you’ve all been friends since university? And you all got to work together?”

“Yup,” said Johnny, through a mouthful of food. “We met in the literature program at Uni and were lucky enough to land a job together. Well, not all of us, actually. Doyoung and Jaehyun are publishers under a different company, those absolute snakes; Lucas is actually looking toward a career as a graphic novelist, and Sicheng—Yuta’s squeeze—is currently unemployed.”

Chittaphon laughed. “I’m sorry, Yuta’s what now?” 

“Squeeze,” said Johnny, syllable-by-syllable. “Well, in fairness, neither of them have admitted to it yet, but they don’t really need to. We know what they get up to.”

“Yeah, a couple nights ago, at Johnny’s drinking party,” Taeil leaned forward and dropped the volume of his voice, “Johnny called everyone to the living room, so I went to go get them. They were in the spare room, and they were—”

Johnny aggressively cleared his throat. “Anyway! There’s also a few buddies of ours who were a year behind us. We don’t see them quite as often but they’re still in the group chat.”

“Interesting,” Chittaphon mumbled, with relative disinterest. “Drinking party, you say? Is that something you do a lot?”

“Eh, not really. And it’s more of a calm get-together than a ‘party,’” said Mark. “We just go to Johnny’s place, drink, chat. It’s where we find out all the hot goss.”

Chittaphon hummed laughingly, his eyes squinting into crescents. “Hot goss?”

“Yup, like Taeyong’s bet,” Mark pointed at Taeyong, who suddenly looked like a deer in the headlights. “Last time, Johnny got him to drunkenly make a stupid bet.”

“Oh?” Chittaphon perked up an eyebrow, taking a sip of his water.

Mark nodded. “Yeah, cause see, our Yongie here is a virgin—”

Chittaphon spat his drink out and coughed, reaching for a napkin to wipe his face. Mark and Johnny laughed out loud and Taeil tried to hide his chuckle behind a mouthful. 

“Sorry, goodness,” Chittaphon said quietly, “did you say . . . Taeyong is . . . Are you a virgin?”

Taeyong could tell his face was shining red. He wondered how fast he’d have to run to make it out the door before somebody caught him. “Y-Yeah,” he squeaked.

“No shit!” Chittaphon leaned toward him, wide-eyed. “Really? How old are you? Aren’t you like twenty—?”

“Two,” Taeyong finished, “I’m twenty-two. I just haven’t really . . . dated anyone.”

“Never?!” Chittaphon’s jaw dropped open and he sat back in his chair.

“Never,” concluded Johnny. “That’s why we made a bet. If he doesn’t lose his V-card in three months by himself, he has to have sex with whomever we give him. We’ll be nice about it, but he just needs to do it.”

Taeyong felt a burning sensation. He looked up for a moment from his hand busily pushing food around on his plate to catch Chittaphon’s gaze cooking holes in his skin, glancing at him up and down from behind a hooded, unreadable expression. As soon as he caught it, it was gone, and Chittaphon looked away and innocently sipped his water. Taeyong tried not to think anything of it—it was probably nothing, right?

Everyone was driven back individually, Taeyong getting dropped off last. He felt embarrassed, having the rich and successful author drive his Bentley up to the small apartment complex where Taeyong lived in his one-bedroom, but Chittaphon didn’t say anything about it. Just as he took off his seatbelt, Chittaphon stopped him.

“Wait, just between you and me,” he said, whispering even though nobody else was around, “are you actually a virgin? Or are you just too embarrassed to tell your friends? Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”

Taeyong huffed. “Sorry, no glamorous secret here. I’m actually a virgin. I’ve never dated anyone.”

“But why not?” Chittaphon pressed. “You’re not unattractive and you’re not a bad talker. I get you’re shy, but your friends could help you. I’m sure they’d set you up with a nice girl. Why don’t you let them?”

“Because I—” Taeyong sighed. He didn’t know how to phrase it. He didn’t know how to avoid it. Perhaps it was his carefree attitude towards the story of Yuta and Sicheng, or the look in his eyes, or his calming voice, but whatever it was, Taeyong felt he could trust him. “I . . . don’t want a girl.”

Chittaphon stared at him blankly for a long moment. Then, his eyes widened slightly, accompanied by a sharp intake of breath, and he figured it out. “You won’t tell them that?”

“I don’t know how,” Taeyong admitted. “I’ve . . . actually never told anyone before. Until now. I guess I’m just afraid.”

“I’m the first person you’ve ever told?” Chittaphon asked softly. “I feel so honoured.”

“Well, formally told, yeah,” Taeyong shrugged. “Obviously the—regrettably few—guys I’ve kissed know that I’m . . . y’know.”

Chittaphon smiled warmly. “You’re what? It’s okay to say it.”

“I’m . . . I’m gay,” Taeyong said firmly.

“Good job,” Chittaphon chuckled, clapping gently. Taeyong felt a fuzzy feeling deep in his chest and a fluttery sensation in his stomach all of a sudden.

“You’re okay with it?” he asked.

“Yeah, stupid,” Chittaphon mussed up Taeyong’s hair. “Now get out, it’s late. I’ll see you at work on Monday.”

Taeyong opened the door and stepped out, waving goodbye as the Bentley pulled away. He watched the rear lights disappear into the distance with a smile on his face. The admittance had taken an unruly weight off his shoulders that he’d forgotten was there.

When he got inside, he decided to finish the Rune novelette that had been lying on his couch for a week, Don’t Come Close to Me, about a professor—Donghae—who falls head over heels for his young colleague—Rowoon, an apprenticing teacher—despite his better judgement. It was one of the raunchier novelettes, the subject matter being less-than-ethical and the language being quite racy. It was the kind of novelette that could get him going unreasonably fast. 

“ Donghae let his head fall back against his office chair and tried to imagine what Rowoon’s mouth would feel like. His lips, soft and plushy, would feel like clouds kissing up and down his shaft, and his tongue—although short—could no doubt work wonders. The thought of his junior beneath him, a hand on each of his knees, his innocent doe-eyes looking up at him as he kitten-licked the head, made Donghae so hard he thought for sure he’d pop the button of his jeans. Quickly, he removed them. ”

Taeyong absolutely would not recall the way Chittaphon’s lips wrapped around the rim of his tea mug, and apply that memory in another context, to easily present the image of the author gracefully suckling his tip, eyes giving him that same look he’d cast across the dinner table. He absolutely wouldn’t think about the sound Chittaphon had made when he’d choked on his water, and imagine him choking on something else—no, he wouldn’t think of such filthy things. Except he already was, and his normally loose-fitting jeans had become very tight.

Frustrated with the way his mind wandered, he tried to focus on the novelette, but he discovered he couldn’t read. He would look at the pages, observe the letters, but he wouldn’t absorb a single fragment of information. Behind his eyes he only saw Chittaphon; his figure, his hands, the length of his fingers and what they could do to him. Before his inner reasoning could stop him, his hand was wrapping itself around his shaft, stiff as steel and angrily red at the top.

Just then, he heard his phone vibrate on the table. Huffing frustratedly, he opened it with his left hand to a text from Chittaphon himself.

3월 13일, 8시 1분  
전화 할게 (I will call you)  
대답하세요 (Please pick up)

Right then was absolutely not the time, but his phone was ringing before he could type out a response. With a sigh and a silent prayer that it would be quick, he answered.

“Hey, Taeyong? Sorry, there was something I forgot to mention earlier,” said Chittaphon, into his ear. Taeyong tried to ignore the aggressive twitch that ran up his groin at the sound of his voice.

Praying his voice wouldn’t crack, he asked, “What is it?”

Judging from the background noises of clinking glasses and cupboards slamming shut, Chittaphon was at home. “I was hoping you’d actually be available to come over tomorrow and talk more about the novel. I found your notes today really helpful and informative and . . .”

He kept going, but his words became just sounds, just the drone of his lovely accent, the gentle air of his breathing. Taeyong cursed his wayward hand as it crept back to his erection, which leaked and begged for attention. He could suddenly hear Chittaphon whispering sweet nothings to him—“Are you horny?” “Do you want me?” “Do you feel good?”—in his sweet, pitchy voice, dropped to a sensual whisper. 

“So I’ll probably be up around noon tomorrow, I like to sleep late, but anytime after that you can . . .” Chittaphon was saying, but Taeyong only heard bits and pieces. He bit his lip to keep his breath from shuddering, as he moved his hand in twisting strokes, his grip tightening and making white-hot arousal pool in his stomach. 

Chittaphon was eating something crunchy while he spoke, mouth smacking. “So, how’s that sound?”

“Good,” Taeyong practically whimpered, voice hitching. He winced, but his hand wouldn’t stop.

“You okay? You sound a little funny. Are you feeling sick?” Chittaphon asked, concerned. Taeyong’s back arched—he was close.

“Yeah, yeah I’m . . . I’m good,” he said, fighting to keep his voice steady. He felt a knot begin to tighten in the pit of his stomach.

“You sure?” Chittaphon murmured, but Taeyong was sure he heard him say, “You feel good?” 

That was it. He pulled his phone away from his face when he came, biting his lip so hard it bled so he wouldn’t make a sound. His body shook with adrenaline and raw pleasure, the guilt of what he’d done slowly piling up on his conscience.

“Yes, I’m sure. I’m fine. I’ll be over tomorrow sometime after noon,” he concluded, calmly but out of breath. As soon as Chittaphon hung up, he cringed at himself and resigned the rest of the night to lying in bed under three blankets of shame. He wasn’t sure when he’d fallen asleep.

The following morning, he got his notes together and dressed up nice—skinny ripped jeans, loose-fitting T-shirt tucked in, and a black bomber jacket over top. He tried not to think about the previous night’s endeavors while he packed a quick bag, thoughtlessly stuffing Don’t Come Close to Me in last-minute to read on the trains.

“Welcome! Come in!” said Chittaphon when he answered the door. He lived in a high-end penthouse on a hill, with a garage for his Bentley and his fancy motorbike and sleek bicycle. Inside was modern and architectured, with books and papers seemingly everywhere. A fluffy, bobtail cat was curled up in its bed on the living room floor. 

Chittaphon laid out his manuscript on the island in the kitchen, taking a seat at one of the high chairs and offering the one next to him to Taeyong. He took a seat next to the author and began going over more notes, the proximity making him sweat.

“Can you explain why you think this phrase is confusing?” Chittaphon asked, pointing to an underlined sentence in the manuscript. Taeyong began to explain himself, his voice shaking at the way Chittaphon looked at him, something unsaid behind his eyes. Could he, by chance, know?

“Let me get my secondary notes,” Taeyong said, placing his bag on the table and pulling more papers out. With them came a blue, paperback book, which toppled right off the island and onto the floor between their two chairs. 

Chittaphon, good-natured as always, bent down to pick up the fallen book, taking a moment when he came up to check out the cover, title, and author.

“You read Rune, I see?” he inquired, eyebrow raised, mouth turning up into a smirk. 

Taeyong’s body heated up. “Um, yeah. I didn’t know you knew Rune . . .”

“I’ve heard of him. I wouldn’t say I read his work, but I’ve heard of him. Author gossip, you know,” Chittaphon smiled amiably.

Taeyong paused for a moment. “‘Him’? How do you know it’s a ‘him’?”


	5. The Scent of Fresh-Brewed Coffee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!!
> 
> So Spring Break just started and I have a lot of homework to do, so updates for this story may become slower. Please be patient with me :)
> 
> Also, I will add that I am currently learning Korean as a 3rd language, so if I make any mistakes when writing Korean don't be angry with me but please let me know, it helps my learning.
> 
> I love reading all your comments so please comment lots of feedback and thoughts! Love you all ♡
> 
> Enjoy ^^

“How do you know it’s a ‘him’?” Taeyong asked, perplexion and intrigue mixing like a cocktail in his stomach. “Have you met Rune? Is there like an author’s convention where you can meet other writers away from the public eye?”

Chittaphon laughed generously. “No, nothing so glamorous as that. I don’t know anything about Rune, but I just assume it’s a ‘him’ because of how expertly he describes the male form.”

“I thought you said you’ve never read Rune, only heard of his work,” said Taeyong, slowly, a suspicious edge to his tone. For the first time ever, Chittaphon looked like he’d been caught off-guard.

“Er, well, I didn’t say I’ve never read Rune,” he reiterated, “only that I don’t read his work religiously. I’ve checked out a page or two out of curiosity, enough to know he’s an expert on, well, male genitalia.”

Taeyong snorted and hid an amused smile behind his hand. “Doesn’t have to be a ‘him’ to be an expert,” he pointed out. “People often say you know a lot about the female form, and you have a—well, I’m assuming you have a penis.”

Chittaphon placed a hand atop his thigh and sandwiched it under his other leg, crossing them, and leaned forward as if about to disclose a secret. “Why, yes, I do. How could you tell?”

“Tell, wha— Well, I just assumed, uh,” Taeyong sputtered, face flushing a deep colour for the umpteenth time that week. “I mean, you wear a lot of tight pants, so— Not that I’m looking, uh, there, or anything.”

Chittaphon threw his head back and laughed aloud, exposing the expanse of his long neck, all the unblemished skin. When he straightened again, his shoulders shook with chuckles, and his face was a portrait of glee. “Ah, Taeyongie, you crack me up,” he said, delicately wiping a tear from his eye. “You’re incredibly adorable, you know that?”

If it were possible for the human body to make steam, it would be wafting in great amounts off Taeyong’s body, which felt so hot he thought he’d pass out from heat stroke. He needed to change the topic of conversation, fast, before the pressure became too great and sent his head popping right off his shoulders.

“Uh, anyway,” he mumbled, “I was hoping you’d know Rune. See, he’s been on a hiatus of sorts recently, but since he’s so little-known and non-publicized nobody knows where he went.”

Chittaphon’s head tilted to the side. “What do you mean, hiatus?”

“Well, normally his publishing is pretty regular,” Taeyong explained, “but he hasn’t published anything in several months. It’s like he just . . . disappeared. If you knew him I thought maybe you’d know what happened.”

Something unreadable was behind Chittaphon’s eyes, and he seemed reserved, like the guy who spends the whole night at a party leaning against the back wall and has loads of secrets—takes one to know one. “I don’t know Rune, so I’m afraid I can’t help you. Perhaps he’s experiencing writer’s block, or he’s busy with other things. Who knows.”

Taeyong somehow got the sense they wouldn’t be talking about Rune anymore. Nonetheless, he couldn’t be happier—he’d never before been able to discuss anything Rune-related with anyone, and it had always felt like it was a big part of his life that he couldn’t share. Not that he would share all of it anyway, though.

They wrapped up work within three hours. Chittaphon seemed pleased as he placed his palms flat upon his manuscript, closing his eyes as if praying for good fortune.

“You know, I think that’s the fastest I’ve ever completed a manuscript,” Chittaphon said, a brilliant smile upon his face. “I’m pretty confident this is ready to publish soon. We really are the dream team. Chi-and-T. We could start our own brand.”

Taeyong ducked his head to cover a flustered smile. He wasn’t used to being so highly praised by anyone, much less his most adored author that he struggles to not have a crush on. He’d lost count of how many times he’d told himself to ‘keep it professional.’

Chittaphon had offered to drive him home, but Taeyong politely declined. He figured one more ride in his Bentley would give him a serious case of money fever, and he was much better suited to the subway and the occasional ride in his old Toyota Camry that he can barely afford. Besides, serene rides on the trains at night, just him and his music, nobody around with expectations of him—it was his Heaven.

He thought, that night, having apparently finished the manuscript, there would be nothing left for him to do with Chittaphon for a while. He could focus on working with the smaller writers under his care, and actually get to breathe for the time being. Alas, he awoke the following morning to a text, from a familiar number. 

3월 15일, 8:34 오전  
나 달콤커피에 만나세요 (Meet me at Dal.Komm Coffee)  
10시 30분에 (At 10:30)  
고마워 ^^ (Thanks ^^)

Taeyong blinked tiredly and read the messages over a few times. He was wearing only loose pajama pants, his hair was a complete mess, and he hadn’t yet showered, and Chittaphon wanted them to meet somewhere in Mapo-gu in two hours—no, because he sent that an hour ago. Taeyong quickly typed out a reply.

3월 15일, 9:40 오전  
나 좀 늦을 거예요 (I will be a little late)  
미안해요 (Sorry) 

As quick as he could, he jumped in the shower and scrubbed himself clean, indulging in a generous amount of body lotion—cucumber and mint scented. He mussed his hair to make it look like he didn’t really care—even though he totally did—and threw on jeans, a new sweatshirt, and old sneakers. He felt like he was in high school again.

3월 15일, 9:49 오전   
ㅋㅋ 괜찮아 (Lol it’s okay)

The text from Chittaphon had been sent while he was in the shower, and reading it brought a smile to his face. It was easy to forget the author was in his twenty-fourth year of life. 

He took the train from Hannam Station in Gangnam-gu to Gajwa Station in Mapo-gu, a fifteen-minute ride that preceded a lot of walking to some random coffee joint in Hongdae. As soon as he walked in—no, even as soon as he’d reached the threshold—he noticed Chittaphon, immediately, seated elegantly at a table for two, a steaming cup in front of him next to a stack of papers that looked like a manuscript. Curious, Taeyong sat down.

“Oh, you made it earlier than I thought,” said Chittaphon, with a gentle smile. He was wearing circle glasses and a saggy beanie, with an oversized hoodie, joggers, and expensive running shoes. “Sorry to call you on such short notice, but I wasn’t sure if I wanted to do this and I finally decided this morning.”

“I’ve never even seen you drink coffee,” Taeyong complained, “why are we meeting at some random café 13 km away from where we live?”

Chittaphon stuck out his tongue partway. “I don’t drink coffee. See, tea,” he pointed at his cup. “But the further away from Gangnam-gu we are, the less likely I am to be recognized in public.”

“People won’t recognize you in Hongdae?” Taeyong joked, revelling in Chittaphon’s snorting laugh. 

“They might, but it’s less likely,” he said.

The sun filtering through the window hit Chittaphon’s frame just so, accentuating his facial structure and perfectly clean pores. He was freshly clean-shaven, his skin glowing, and his lips were glossed. Taeyong thought it’d be hard not to notice him.

“Anyway, what’s this delicate, top-secret operation I’ve been called to?” he leaned forward, close enough to smell what could either be deodorant or body mist—knowing Chittaphon, it was probably the latter.

The author took a deep breath and pushed the manuscript papers across the table, but upon closer inspection, it looked more like an early publication draft, with a spine and a cover, but too plain to actually be put on display and sold. He flipped the item around and read the title, printed simply in black ink on the brown paper front.

‘In Words He Trusts,’ by Rune.

“What’s this?” Taeyong asked, earnestly confused. He’d read all of Rune’s titles at least once, and this was not one of them. It held that new-paper smell, and its pages were immaculately uncreased. It seemed like it had never been touched.

Chittaphon fiddled with his own fingers on the table, searching for words. “It’s . . . Well, obviously, it’s a book by Rune. The newest one. Not yet published, but close to. I want you to take a look at it and tell me what you think.”

“You mean . . . like, edit it?” Taeyong asked, eyes widening. He felt his hands had sinned just by touching the brand-new, super-secret title.

“Yeah, edit it. Make notes,” Chittaphon instructed, nodding. “You also needn’t wait any longer for Rune’s hiatus to be over. This way, you can read his newest work before anyone else.”

“Hold on,” Taeyong’s head was spinning, “how did you get this? Are you sure you don’t—”

Chittaphon cut him off before he could finish his sentence. “I have my ways. Author’s insider pass, you know. I won’t disclose any . . . intimate secrets. Not yet, at least. I haven’t decided if I can trust you. Edit that manuscript, feel free to write on it, then return it to me.”

Taeyong shut up and just nodded, intimidated and in awe. He slowly swiped his hand across the cover of the book, feeling the texture beneath his fingers. Suddenly, Chittaphon finished his tea in one swig and stood up.

“Sorry to drag you out here for a short-and-sweet ten minutes, but I need to be going. I have a meeting with the publishers about the book we worked on last night. Take your time with that one, there’s no real rush,” he said collecting his shoulder bag and fixing his hat. “I’ll be seeing you.”

And he went, face downcast to avoid unwanted attention. Something about the whole ordeal left a sinking, strange feeling in Taeyong’s stomach. He stuffed novelette in his bag—it was short, thin, could probably be read in one night, two at most. He started reading it on the train, immediately finding himself engrossed.

By the time he’d made it back to his small apartment, he’d read half of the manuscript. The story followed Song Tae Hyun, a poet and writer, who slowly falls in love with his apprentice, Nam Jae Gi. Taeyong had written multiple things in his notebook, most of them positive, like how he loved that Jaegi is outgoing and socially strong, while Taehyun is shy and not used to mentoring anyone, and how they both learn from each other along the way. Of course, the sex was written as beautifully as ever, with such sensuality and power in every description. Taeyong had to sit down.

“ Taehyun cursed his wayward cock, rising beyond his will, giving him the shakes. He prayed his jeans and his long shirt would conceal it, at least until Jaegi left the room, and he would be spared the embarrassment of having popped a big one at the sight of Jaegi bent over the counter. The poor apprentice was merely checking his phone, relaxed. He had no idea what he was doing to Taehyun, or how much Taehyun wanted to press his erection against Jaegi’s soft ass, fuck him hard and dirty like before. But once had tested their relationship enough; could they withstand round two? ”

Taeyong slid further down on his couch, fuming from the inside. This title was raunchier than Rune’s work had ever been, and his breathing had become ragged very quickly—he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to jot down decent notes before one of his balls popped from the pressure.

Deciding he needed a break, he stood up and went to change into a pair of old sweats, fanning his heated face with both hands. He fixed himself a glass of iced water and geared himself to sit down again, forcing himself to focus on the diction and making competent notes rather than the thoughts that put him in Jaegi’s place.

***

“So, lost that pesky V-card yet?” Johnny asked, swinging his arm over Taeyong’s shoulders. “Eighty-seven days left, y’know.”

“Yeah, thanks, you don’t need to be counting down for me,” Taeyong grumbled. He’d not had nearly enough alcohol to deal with Johnny, and despite it being ten in the morning, he’d already had some. The night before had been a vicious cycle of reading, writing notes, and jacking off—in that order. He thanked God that nobody had yet asked about the brace on his right wrist.

Johnny laughed and gave him a—slightly condescending—pat on the back. “Come on, Yongie. Even Yuta has lost his. He’s a bit strange-looking but he’s still gettin’ some!”

Yuta raised his head from his work station and scowled. “Hey!”

Johnny waved innocently at Yuta and grinned, then turned back to Taeyong. “Maybe you’re just waiting for the three months to be over so we’ll set you up, and it’ll be done with? You don’t have to wait, y’know, you can just ask.”

Taeyong groaned and writhed out of Johnny’s grip. “No thanks. I said I’d do it myself. Eighty-seven days is a long time, give me a break.”

Johnny shrugged and backed off. Inside, Taeyong worried fervently, but he wouldn’t let it show. Losing his virginity to a woman would just be a complete disaster, but Johnny would never understand. Just then, Taeyong’s phone buzzed.

3월 16일, 1:03 오후  
나 도착 중이야~ (I’m arriving~)

Chittaphon was in the building. That meant Taeyong had to meet him in the break lounge and hand over the mysterious Rune manuscript that had, quite literally, milked him dry. He collected his bag, and his patience, and headed out of the workroom.

Chittaphon was dressed up in a tight, floral button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, tight darkwash jeans, and black Converse runners. He had dark shades on his head, and was bobbing a tea bag in his mug and staring into it in thought. Taeyong gulped, and approached.

“I finished reading it,” he said, presenting the manuscript. It now had a nice new set of creases, indicating it had been well-read. Chittaphon seemed pleased.

“Excellent,” he praised, gently taking the draft. He glanced at Taeyong’s right arm, his expression changing to show concern and a hint of humour. “What’s with the brace?”

Taeyong flushed, pulling on his sleeve to try and cover as much of the blue medical brace as he could. “I, uh, sprained my wrist yesterday . . .”

“Uh huh?” Chittaphon smirked, a playful look in his eyes. Oh, he knew. “Doing what?”

“N-Nothing . . .” Taeyong mumbled. He sorely remembered the embarrassment he’d felt when he’d realized he had, actually, managed to sprain his wrist from masturbating too hard. He’d never felt more like a virgin.

“Little hot for you?” Chittaphon teased, tapping his chin. Taeyong hadn’t before been someone who experiences suicidal thoughts, but oh, in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to be buried six feet under. 

He cleared his throat loudly to dismiss the subject. “Let’s not talk about my, er, ‘love life’ and let me ask the real question. How did you get this manuscript? How did you really get it?”

Chittaphon looked around. They shared the room with Joy and Irene, from Department 3, who were enjoying some Starbucks and discussing notes, and some guy named Baek-something who was boredly scrolling through his phone. Taeyong was grabbed by the wrist and dragged down the hall, to the men’s bathroom, which was a lot less populated.

“Lee Taeyong, when I say you cannot tell anyone, I mean it,” he said, in a whisper, his breath smelling of mint toothpaste. “If you tell anyone, and this gets out, my career will be ruined. Do you understand? Can I trust you?”

Taeyong stepped back and took a ninety-degree bow. “Yes. Absolutely.”

Chittaphon took a deep breath. “I got the manuscript because . . . I wrote it. I know Rune is a ‘him’ because he’s me. I’m Rune, in secret.”

Taeyong reeled. He’d racked up a number of theories, but he’d never expected that. He was aware that Rune is actually a Thai name, but he’d never made the distinction. Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul, his favourite romance novelist of all time and current working partner, also writes sexy gay novelettes on the side? Why? It couldn’t be for attention, as Rune is very low-brow and unpublicized. There had to be more.

“Wha . . . ?” he whispered. “You?! You’re Rune?! Are you telling me that my two favourite writers have been the same person all along?!”

Chittaphon shrugged. “It’s a hobby of mine. Plus, the more money the better, right?” he smiled sheepishly. “I’m glad you like my books. Perhaps a little too much,”—with a glance at his wrist—“but I’m sure you had fun. Anyway, allow me to repeat, do not tell anyone this, then perhaps I’ll have you edit more Rune books in the future, hmm?”

Taeyong’s head was swimming the rest of the day. He drowned himself in even more $1 coffee, but this time he secretly added shots of Baileys to each cup. By the time he got home, he was quite possibly drunk and definitely still in shock. He imagined every Rune story he’d ever read—so, all of them—but with Chittaphon behind every word, every phrase, every heated scene of arduous love-making between two men. How could he possibly stop himself from seeing Chittaphon as the lead, imagine him naked and hard, his eyes hooded and filled with lust and pointed directly at him? It was so real, so close then, so much so he could already feel Chittaphon between his legs, pressed close, panting hard and hot above him as he pushed in—

Ah, he thought, snapping out of it and shaking his head. He looked down at the raging bulge in his pants and wondered if his wrist could take another go.


	6. The Scent of Cherry Chapstick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> Sorry this took so long, I've been busy and I'm also very lazy ^^" I gave myself cramps in my hands writing this, and I think you guys will really like this chapter, so forgive me!!
> 
> Some notes:  
> Khon Dii (คนด) is a Thai word meaning "my good girl/my love"  
> W1,000,000 = $1,215.93 CAD, $930 USD  
> W50,000 = $59.47 CAD, $46.15 USD
> 
> I hope you all enjoy and thank you for waiting! Also, keep up the lovely comments and thanks so much for 2000+ hits and 200+ kudos ^^

3월 18일, 5:46 오후   
내 집을 오세요 (Come to my house)  
보고 싶어 ^^ (I want to see you ^^)

Taeyong’s supervisor had advised him to take the day off, as his wrist had gotten worse and it was difficult for him to write—nobody needed to know the reason behind the sprain, nor the explanation for its worsening. He’d spent the afternoon wandering aimlessly around his house, gnawing on deli chicken, and half-watching bad soap operas on the ‘old-ladies’ channel.’ He hadn’t run into Chittaphon the day before, as the author had been caught up in publication meetings, and they hadn’t seen each other in some time. Still, Taeyong wasn’t expecting to receive what sounded suspiciously like a booty call.

3월 18일, 5:58 오후  
네네, 저 온 거예요 (Yes yes, I will come)  
문제가 있어요? (Is there a problem?)

He awaited a response while fitting himself into an oversized T-shirt and tight-fit jeans. Outside, the sun was shining and the weatherman had advertised a whopping 11°C. 

3월 18일, 6:01 오후  
아냐아~ (Nope~)  
와서 편집하라 (Come and edit)

Taeyong rolled his eyes at the childishness but couldn’t suppress a smile. He collected anything he’d need and pulled on shoes, ones he’d bought online for an outrageous price when he was feeling frivolous—and slightly drunk—but had always been afraid to wear lest he ruin them. He decided, for the sake of said shoes, he would drive his cheap car to Chittaphon’s instead of taking a train, but he still parked almost a block away out of slight embarrassment—a Toyota Camry parked outside a gorgeous hilltop penthouse in Apgujeong-dong would certainly gain attention, but not exactly the good kind.

The door was wide open when he arrived, and so he let himself in, calling out into the empty home. The bamboo floorboards to his left creaked, and Taeyong looked to see Chittaphon, mid-yawn, in pajama pants and an old college sweatshirt, wearing reading glasses that looked like they’d been dug up from the bottom of a drawer, carrying a mug filled with a steaming beverage. 

“Day off today?” Taeyong teased, earning a playful grin from Chittaphon.

“Why, yes, how could you tell?” the author joked. “What about you? How’s that wrist doing?” 

Taeyong once again felt a tingle of embarrassment crawl up his spine. “Worse, so boss told me to take the day off and heal.”

“Worse?” Chittaphon’s eyebrows raised. “Goodness, you need a girlfriend. No, wait, I rescind that—you need a boyfriend. Stat. How’s my hair?”

“A mess,” said Taeyong, “you could house a family of finches.”

“Excellent!” said Chittaphon. He wandered over to the kitchen and almost tripped over his cat on the way, prompting him to say something that sounded angry in Thai. The cat turned its nose up at him and swayed away, and Taeyong tried not to compare them to an old married couple. 

“What’s its name?” Taeyong asked, stretching out his hand for the cat to sniff and then rub its face on. 

“Khon Dii,” said Chittaphon, taking a long sip from his mug. “It’s a Thai name of endearment. I named her that when she was a nice kitten. Now she’s an old hag.”

Taeyong laughed and went to join the author in the kitchen. The day’s meal scraps were still laid out—an apple core and crumbs on a plate, alongside an empty glass of probably milk. Chittaphon had the Rune manuscript out next to Taeyong’s detailed, and sweetly positive, notes. 

“With my ‘Leechaiyapornkul’ novel making its way through the publishing mill as we speak, I have time to focus on Rune,” Chittaphon said, patting the novelette. “I read through your notes, you seemed to really like it—I mean, I got that anyway from that wrist of yours, but even so . . .”

Taeyong cleared his throat awkwardly and sat on one of the chairs by the island. Looking at his notes, he could clearly see areas where his writing was significantly messier, as he’d had to write with his left hand when his right hand was—ahem—busy. He wondered if Chittaphon could tell.

The author sat halfway on the chair next to Taeyong and rested his chin on his hand, elbow propped on the island. “I took a risk writing this one. You might’ve noticed it’s quite a bit more . . . hm, dirty, than the others. What did you think?”

“Yeah, I’d say it was certainly, uh, dirtier,” Taeyong said, itching under his brace. “Very vivid imagery and sensory descriptions. It—”

Just then, Taeyong’s cell phone rang. He went to decline the call, but upon seeing the caller ID, decided otherwise. “Sorry, I gotta take this. Excuse me for a moment.”

Chittaphon waved him off as he quickly ducked into another room and answered the call. “Hello? Mom? I’m a little busy now, but . . . Oh, alright, what is it? What? You what?! You— No, mom, I— I can’t— I’m sorry . . . I’ll see what I can do. Yeah, I’ll call you back soon. Goodbye. Yeah, yeah, love you too. Bye.”

He reentered the kitchen with a worried expression. “Sorry about that. Where was I?”

“Is everything okay, Taeyong-ah?” Chittaphon asked, eyebrows knotting together. “You seem distressed.”

“No, it’s nothing,” Taeyong said, shrugging it off. “It was just my mom. She just”—he sighed deeply—“she took out a loan, but she can’t pay it back, and . . . Well, she wants ₩1,000,000.”

Chittaphon’s eyes widened. “She wants what? A million won?! That’s a lot to ask for!”

Taeyong hung his head. “I know. I want to be a good son and help her, but I couldn’t possibly afford that much. That’s more than my rent for this month! I’d be evicted!”

“Okay, okay, let’s not be dramatic. Have you tried explaining this to her?” Chittaphon tried.

“She’s not easily persuaded,” said Taeyong. “Also, I may have . . . lied to her about how much I make. I wanted her to be proud of me, but now she thinks I have ₩1,000,000 to spare. She said that the due date for payment is tomorrow, and once the interest starts piling up, her debt will only get worse. I’m her last resort, I can’t let her down.” 

Chittaphon closed the Rune novelette and hopped off his chair. “Give me a minute,” he said, and headed off down the hall to what Taeyong presumed was his bedroom. He came back twenty minutes later, dressed in a floral button-up, tight worn—but not quite ripped—jeans, and a bomber jacket. He’d abandoned the reading glasses and had slicked his hair up with gel and done his makeup. He’d even put in circle lenses.

“What’s this?” Taeyong asked. 

“You’re stressed. You can’t possibly work under these conditions weighing on you, so you need a distraction,” Chittaphon said, grabbing his bag and checking that he had everything. “Get up. I’m taking you out.”

“What? Out? Like, on a date?” Taeyong immediately bit his tongue. Maybe he shouldn’t have said that.

Chittaphon put on expensive canvas shoes and opened the front door, flashing a blinding smile at Taeyong. “Sure, why not?”

***

They’d driven in Chittaphon’s Bentley SUV to an Italian-style restaurant in the heart of Seoul, bustling with activity and bright lights. Prices that made Taeyong queasy were displayed everywhere—he imagined what it must be like to be able to afford handbags that were more than twice the cost of his monthly rent. 

They were given a table immediately—celebrity status—and one look at the menu made Taeyong want to hurl. He never thought a plate of pasta could possibly exceed ₩50,000, but he was sorely mistaken. He put the menu down and grabbed his bag, shame creeping up his face.

“Chittaphon, sorry,” he whispered, “I— We can’t eat here, this is way over my budget. There’s no way I can afford this.”

Chittaphon chuckled at him. “This is a date, silly, the man pays. Order whatever you like. Even drinks. Go crazy.”

“The man— Hyung, we’re both men,” Taeyong said, a little crossly.

Chittaphon leaned forward. “True, but you prefer to be the receiver, don’t you? Would you be the ‘woman’ if it meant enjoying ₩50,000 pasta for free?”

Taeyong felt dizzy, and shut up. When the waitress came around, Chittaphon ordered fettuccine alfredo and horrendously overpriced white wine, and Taeyong stuck with spaghetti—sans meatballs—and water.

“This is going to cost you a fortune!” Taeyong hissed, quietly, muffled by the soft jazz playing over the speakers. “I feel bad. Maybe we should go—”

“Luckily,” Chittaphon sang, cutting him off, “I make a fortune. Listen, the last thing you should be thinking about now is money. Sit back, relax, and let me buy you some ludicrously overpriced garbage.”

Taeyong couldn’t help but laugh. They engaged in mindless chatter as they awaited their food, and Taeyong quickly became lost in the atmospheric lighting and gentle tunes, in the softness of Chittaphon’s skin and the sparkle in his eyes. When their plates were set before them, Taeyong understood why it costed ₩50,000—the smell, the look, it was all expensive and valuable and he was almost afraid to dig in.

“So,” Chittaphon began, “I feel like I don’t know enough about you. You’re Lee Taeyong, you work with Daydream Publishing, you live in Seoul, you’re gay, and you’re a virgin who’s never dated. There’s so many missing pieces. Let’s see . . . What made you decide to become an editor?”

Taeyong swallowed his first mouthful and quivered at the array of flavours in his mouth. Overpriced? Yes. Worth it? Absolutely. “Well, originally,” he started, taking a sip of water, “I wanted to be an author. I enrolled in the literacy program in college, that’s where I met Johnny and those guys, but by the time I graduated I guess I’d given up on being a writer. So, I did the next closest thing and looked for a job as an editor.”

“Why did you give it up?” 

“I don’t know . . . I guess I was afraid of failure and rejection. Like, if I didn’t make it as an author, what would I do? It was too much pressure for me,” he sighed. “I think that kind of fear has kept me from a lot of things in life.”

Chittaphon had an empathetic expression. “Is that why you’ve never taken a lover?”

Taeyong shrugged. “I guess so . . . I was so afraid in school that if I asked someone I liked out, he’d call me disgusting and then tell everyone I’m a fag. The irrational fear of anyone knowing I’m gay kept me from any potential boyfriends.”

“It’s been over a year since I’ve dated,” said Chittaphon. “I’ve had a couple quick flings since then, but nothing substantial. I can’t imagine twenty-two years . . . But anyway, you seem fine.”

“I’m not fine,” Taeyong groaned, “I sprained my wrist from jacking off! If I don’t have sex soon I think my balls may shrivel up and fall off!”

Chittaphon snorted and shielded his mouth, whispering, “You may want to lower your voice.” Taeyong looked over and caught the angry—and mildly disgusted—looks from a middle-aged couple one table over. He ducked his head apologetically.

“Anyhow,” he mumbled, quieter, “I really do need to have sex soon. Remember my bet with Johnny? If I don’t get it on before June, I have to do it with any girl he gives me. He says he’ll find a nice one, but that isn’t the point. I cannot get it up for a woman. Do you see my dilemma?”

Chittaphon hummed thoughtfully. “Yes, that is quite the pickle. But my question is, wouldn’t you need some kind of proof? Why can’t you just tell Johnny you had sex, even if you didn’t?”

“I am a terrible liar,” Taeyong sighed wistfully. “Johnny knows it. He can see through me like a brand-new window pane. If I have sex, I can’t lie and say I didn’t, and if I didn’t have sex, I can’t lie and say I did. He knows when I’m honest and when I’m not.”

Chittaphon downed the last sip of his wine with a troubled expression. “That’s rough. I mean, there are gay bars in Seoul, you could go pick someone up? Ah, I guess you’d want your first time to be special . . . Is there someone you want to have sex with right now?”

Taeyong panicked. Obviously, the first person that sprung to mind was the author himself—all those vigorous sessions that brought his wrist to shambles spent thinking about Chittaphon’s body, his voice, his skin, his breath and touch. He couldn’t say that, even if the truth was he’d love to have his virginity taken by the gorgeous Thai man sitting across from him. 

“Uh, n-no,” he said, blushing. “There’s nobody in particular.”

Chittaphon smirked. “Wow, you are a terrible liar. Whatever, I won’t pry. Shall we?”

Taeyong hadn’t dared to look at the bill. They traversed back to the Bentley, Chittaphon’s jacket slung over his shoulder, and piled in. The author tapped his nails against the steering wheel, deep in thought for a few moments. Then, he started the engine.

“Are we going back?” Taeyong asked. Chittaphon gave him a sly grin.

“Nope! You’re still tense. You need to let loose. I know a good place for drinks. You drink, right?” 

Taeyong gulped. “Um, yeah.”

“Great! Off we go.”

They didn’t have to drive far. Their destination was a fancy lounge in the night-life area of Gangnam-gu, with low coloured lights and the latest pop hits blasting through the speakers. The bartenders were sexy and suave mixologists and the waitresses were all leg and long, shiny hair. Somehow, there was little pressure, all the patrons laid-back and enjoying their drinks, and the dance floor even seemed inviting.

They sat at a corner booth beneath a rotating ball of small, rainbow LED lights, in between a couple who were suspiciously close and whispering to each other and a group of bachelors buzzed off their collection of empty bottles. Taeyong looked at the drink menu and wanted to cry again.

Chittaphon confiscated the menu. “No peeking, I’ll order for us. Can’t have you worrying about the prices anymore.”

“But it’s so expens—”

“Shh, I said don’t worry,” Chittaphon said. “For once you won’t be getting drunk off cheap Soju and corner-store beer. Just savor this chance to taste real, import alcohol that tastes like money.” 

“You’re trying to get me drunk?” Taeyong raised an eyebrow accusingly. 

Chittaphon scoffed. “Well now, I wasn’t planning on it, but let’s be honest. I’ve heard from Johnny you don’t hold your liquor well. Besides, I want to let loose a little, too. I’d feel bad if I was the only one plastered.”

“Uh, you’re the one driving,” said Taeyong. “Should you be drinking?”

Chittaphon swiped a hand through the air. “Bah! Whatever. We’ll take a cab back.”

“But your Bentley—”

“Shush, stop worrying about every little thing,” the author silenced him. “It has a tracker, I’ll find it again. Heck, I can pay someone to find it for me! Just relax. The only thing you need to think about is whether this music is bad or awful.”

Taeyong watched helplessly as Chittaphon ordered drinks he couldn’t pronounce and a platter of foreign finger-food. They were served quickly, pots of molten chocolate and cheese set before them and plates of fruit and vegetables and bread. They were given really expensive crystal glasses—some big and some for shots—and bottles of alcohol from overseas. Taeyong squinted at the label—French? Italian? Goodness.

“What is this?” he asked, pointing at the food options and the pointy sticks.

Chittaphon stabbed a strawberry with one of the sticks and dipped it in the hot, melted chocolate, letting it drip off and solidify before he popped it in his mouth. “It’s fondue, a French delicacy. The fruit goes with the chocolate for a sweet treat, and the bread and veggies go with the cheese for a savoury delight. Try some.”

Taeyong gingerly stabbed a head of broccoli and dipped it in the pot of cheese. “It’s pon— Pondeu— What?”

“Fon-dew,” said Chittaphon again, slowly. “Fon. Ffffffffffon, dee-w.”

Taeyong blinked. He couldn’t make that kind of sound. “Pondeu,” he tried, then his shoulders sank. “Your English is better than mine.”

Chittaphon giggled. “It’s French, but thank you. I studied English at school in Thailand. Some of the sounds would be strange to a Korean person, but it gets easier. That’s the ‘F’ sound. Just keep your bottom lip against your top teeth—yeah, like that—then purse your lips a little—uh-huh—then blow. Sharply. Yeah! You got it.”

“Ffffondeu,” Taeyong said. He smiled giddily, pleased with himself.

Chittaphon began pouring the drinks. They tasted foreign and strong, but Taeyong was excited at the spark they left on his palette. Mindless conversation ensued as they ate fondue and drank—a little too much. An hour passed, and Taeyong felt sufficiently swimmy.

“Can . . . Can I ask you something?” 

“You just did,” Chittaphon replied with a smirk, pointing his glass smugly at Taeyong, who rolled his eyes.

“Not what I meant,” he said, popping a chocolate-dipped banana slice in his mouth. “So you— You’ve, y’know. You’ve had . . . y’know, before right?”

“Why yes, I have had brick toast before,” Chittaphon said, matter-of-factly. “It’s very good. I love sweet things so I highly recommend it.”

“No, shut up, smartass,” Taeyong groaned, and Chittaphon laughed aloud. “I mean . . . Sex. You’ve had sex before?”

The author grinned. “Mmmm, yes. Quite a few times. That I also highly recommend.”

“So,” Taeyong gulped, “what’s it like?”

He hadn’t noticed the music for a while. Everything sounded muffled, like it was underwater, even his own words were easily lost in the hum and the boom. The only sound that came out clear was Chittaphon’s voice. He leaned closer.

“Well,” Chittaphon smiled, “obviously, it’s . . . good. It’s all sweat and heat and pheromones. You kind of get lost in it. Coherent thought goes out the window. You’re just adrift in the push and pull, the sweet sensations, the closeness of the other’s body to yours. And then it all reaches a crescendo, and everything shakes like a category four, and you come down off the white-hot, raw pleasure like sinking into a deep sea. Every breath rivets through you. You feel alive.”

Taeyong sat back heavily, boasting a semi. “Wow. Holy crap. Okay. Um, wow. Wow.”

“And sex isn’t even the best part,” said Chittaphon, dropping his voice sensually. “It’s the foreplay that matters the most. Those bittersweet touches, the hands caressing all those naughty nooks and crannies, feeling your length in someone else’s palm. It’s almost surreal. And a blowjob—hoo! Don’t even get me started.”

“A blow— Does that feel good?” Taeyong asked quietly, leaning forward again. He was crushed beneath the zipper of his jeans.

The author took another swig of whatever was in his cup, finishing it. “Oh, God yes. You know what it feels like in your hand, sliding your palm up and down, that beautiful friction? And you know what it feels like to make out, the other person’s tongue sliding across yours, their saliva all wet and slippery and it’s kinda gross but you’re too far gone to care? Combine those two. That lovely back-and-forth slide, all hot and makes you shiver, but sloppy and saturated, a tongue swiping over the tip instead of a thumb, and you have no control over what’s done to you. Your pleasure is in their hands—or rather, their mouth.”

Taeyong was quaking. He was throbbing, hard as rock and sorely confined, hand itching to go to town and body aching for release. He’d asked a simple question, he wasn’t expecting paragraphs. Then again, it was a porn author he was speaking to.

“Sorry, I need to use the washroom,” he squeaked, and slipped away as fast as he could. He held his shirt down so nobody would notice his raging erection—not that anyone was looking or even sober enough to care.

The bathroom was, thankfully, empty. He threw himself into a stall and sat down, shimmying out of his jeans and freeing his hard-on to the stagnant air. His breathing was ferocious—he was not prepared for Chittaphon to talk like that. Cursing his sprained wrist, he resigned himself to his left hand, which would be awkward but it would have to do.

His mind was plagued with Chittaphon’s description, and he imagined the author’s sweet lips wrapped around him, his wet tongue sliding up his shaft, even his perfect teeth just gently grazing the skin. He imagined Chittaphon knelt right there before him, in a public bathroom, mouth wide and eyes filled with wanton lust, the possibility of being walked in on pushed to the back of his mind. He came almost as soon as he’d wrapped his hand around himself.

He returned to the table minutes later with a straight face, pretending he’d only gone for a piss. He met a look that told him somehow Chittaphon knew, but he didn’t say anything. The author was pulling his jacket over his shoulders, and a massive wad of cash had been left on the table.

“Let’s go,” said Chittaphon, in an almost-aegyo voice, “I wanna dance!”

“There’s a floor here—”

“The dance culture here sucks!” he complained. “I know a good club. Follow me!”

Taeyong was far too tipsy to be running, but he had to jog to keep up with the energetic Chittaphon, who was making a beeline down the street toward a block that was almost exclusively bars and clubs, side-by-side. They joined the lineup outside of one with a pink sign that Taeyong was too drunk to read, in front of a pack of young ladies who were generously buzzed themselves.

Taeyong was dragged to the floor as soon as they got inside, and he quickly realized his dance moves were far inferior to Chittaphon’s. The author had dance fever like Taeyong had never seen it, his hips swaying and his head bobbing, feet stepping exactly to the beat. Taeyong stood like a statue, gently moving to-and-fro, unsure what to make of the strange song blaring from the speakers. 

“Come on!” Chittaphon yelled. “Get down! Get funky! Get loose!”

Chittaphon took him by the hands and led him like a marionette, and Taeyong quickly decided he didn’t care if he looked stupid. He started to dance like nobody would see, like they were the only ones in the room, his body under the spell of the bass. Without any expectation to take someone home—rather, without Johnny breathing down his neck to get laid—he felt free, liberated, like nothing mattered, like there was nothing in the world but him, Chittaphon, and the music.

By the time he collapsed into the back of a cab, his legs had been sapped of all their strength, and it was a constant battle to keep his eyes open. It must have been past midnight by then, and all he wanted to do was fall into a long and blissful sleep. He stared out the window to focus on staying awake, and he felt a tingle as a warm hand tangled itself with his. He was too loopy to really register it.

They stumbled through Chittaphon’s front door, swaying and shaking their heads vigorously to stay upright. Taeyong felt extremely dizzy and he wanted to throw up. They wandered into the living room and collapsed against the far wall.

Chittaphon was laughing quietly. “Fuck, I’m messed up. That was so much fun. Did you have fun? I had fun. We should do this again sometime.”

“Let me get sober first, before we talk about a repeat,” Taeyong mumbled. “But yeah. I had fun. It’s been a long time since I went out for a genuine good time. Whenever I go out with my friends, they just try to make me fuck something.”

Chittaphon snorted. “Yeah? That’s annoying. You should tell them. Soon. So they start treating you fairly.”

Taeyong looked at Chittaphon, who seemed to have multiplied. “Maybe. Thank you for tonight. I feel much better, I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”

Chittaphon looked back at him, a sweet smile on his face. “You’re welcome. I’m glad I could help.”

They looked at each other for a long time. Taeyong felt warm inside, and he wasn’t sure if that was just the alcohol. He caught Chittaphon’s gaze wavering, glancing down from his eyes. Taeyong unconsciously licked his lips, his mouth feeling dry and parched. 

Chittaphon seemed closer, but then again Taeyong’s depth perception was extremely impaired. But then, something warm and soft pressed against his lips, fitting like a puzzle piece, slotting against him perfectly. His eyes closed, and he slowly realized he was being kissed.

His body reacted before his mind, turning toward Chittaphon, a hand reaching up to grip his waist, head tilting to accept him closer, impossibly close, mouths moving as one. Chittaphon’s lips were as plush as they looked, and he kissed with a fierce gentleness, in a slow manner that made Taeyong feel he could kiss him forever. Chittaphon’s hand slid up Taeyong’s side, sending shivers down his spine, and the tip of his tongue lapped at his lips, requesting entry. Mind spinning, Taeyong obliged.

The feeling of Chittaphon’s tongue sliding against his own made him melt. He buzzed with energy with every push and pull, with every press of Chittaphon’s fingers in his skin, with every throb of his easily-excited dick. Chittaphon, his body, his hands, his mouth, his tongue—Taeyong wanted it so badly he could cry. 

Suddenly, the kiss broke, and Chittaphon pulled away. The author stood and smoothed out the creases in his clothes, and coughed awkwardly. “Sorry, I— You can stay here tonight, on the couch. I’m probably going to call in sick tomorrow . . . Anyway, take it easy. Uh, goodnight.”

And with that, he was gone. Taeyong felt empty, a presence missing that he wanted so desperately. He was about to go follow Chittaphon, grab him, press him against a wall, and kiss him like the world was ending—but then his phone buzzed, and his drunken, shaking hands opened up a text from his mother.

3월 19일, 1:09 오전  
돈을 위해 정말 감사합니다 (Thank you so much for the money)  
사랑해 ♡ (I love you ♡)  
어떻게 든 너를 갚을 거야 (I will repay you somehow)


	7. The Scent of Lavender Soap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello helloooo~~
> 
> So ok WOW this story is really picking up!! I just celebrated 2000+ hits and 200+ kudos, and we're already almost at 3000/300+!! Brb while I cry ;—;
> 
> Thanks everyone for your continued support and all the wonderful comments! I love reading all the positive things people are saying, it makes me so happy and proud and I feel very accomplished that my work isn't going to waste.
> 
> Enjoy this chapter ^^

Taeyong awoke in a tangle of blankets the following morning, early light streaming through the window and blinding his hungover eyes. It took him a few seconds to remember where he was—right, he’d been very drunk the night before and had stayed on Chittaphon’s couch. The cushions were wide and unfortunately comfortable, and if it weren’t for his clothes being bunched and twisted around him, he wouldn’t have been able to get up.

He rubbed his eyes, carefully picking out the crusties. Blinking, he looked around. Chittaphon’s house was very nice-looking in the early morning sunlight, with the shiny flooring and cleanly-painted walls, and the whole aura of ease and comfort that hung in the air like an unspoken memory. Taeyong felt warm and happy, though there was a presence missing.

Then, he remembered. The events of the previous night came flooding back to him like water from a broken dam, coursing through him vividly like a hit from a strong narcotic. He felt Chittaphon’s hands on him again, Chittaphon’s lips pressed against his, their tongues intertwining and their bodies moving together. He remembered how quickly the excitement had rushed to his—little—head. For a moment, he felt dizzy, and had to lean back.

“Good morning,” said a voice, and Taeyong froze, still as a statue. “I’m glad you woke up on your own, I was worried I’d have to shake you. It’s 7:45, so you should get a move on. As I said before, I’m taking the day off. How are you feeling?”

It was a lot of information to process. He looked at Chittaphon, and that cock tease on legs was wearing old grey sweatpants with a college logo and nothing else save for a towel around his shoulders. His hair was tousled and damp, his eyes weary and lashes stuck together with water. He smelled like lavender body wash.

“I’m . . . alright,” said Taeyong. He couldn’t ask about the kiss. No, what if Chittaphon didn’t remember? They were horrendously drunk, so it’s entirely possible. Perhaps it was best to sweep the memory under the rug.

“You shouldn’t drive, but you’ll be late if you take the trains . . .” Chittaphon mumbled. “Ah, I got it.” He walked to the kitchen, a shape between his legs swaying tantalizingly behind the grey fabric, and grabbed his wallet off the island.

He approached, and handed Taeyong a generous amount of bills. “Here, for cab fare,” he said, waving the money in Taeyong’s face. 

Taeyong immediately refused. “No! You’ve already spent so much on me,” he argued. “You bought that fancy dinner and paid for all those drinks . . . On top of that, you sent my mom the ₩1,000,000, didn’t you? I got a text from her thanking me for the money, but I don’t think I paid her.”

Chittaphon grinned. “Don’t worry about it. Once my novel is officially out on the market, I’ll have a massive cash flow coming my way. You can repay me by being an excellent editor and helping me get even more books out there. Good? Now take this money and get to work. You’ll be late.”

The taxi ride was long and silent. Taeyong looked out the window and pushed away thoughts of Chittaphon’s lips, his hands, the print in his sweats. He paid the driver and climbed out of the car once he’d pulled up at Daydream Publishing, and clocked in just in the nick of time.

Strolling into the workroom, he was met with several raised eyebrows. Granted, his hair was a mess, his clothes were wrinkled, and he probably didn’t smell great. He prepared himself for what his colleagues would say.

“You don’t look so good,” said Mark, worriedly. “Did you sleep okay? I can’t put my finger on it . . . You just seem, I guess, dischevilled?”

Taeyong collapsed into his chair and opened his laptop, finding the manuscript for upstart author Lee Yoo Jin he was supposed to finish notes for. “Yeah, I didn’t make it home last night, excuse the lack of hygiene.”

“Oho?” said Johnny, turning around from his place at the printer. “Yongie had a sleepover? Did anything . . . frisky happen?”

Taeyong snorted. “No. I just had a night out with a friend”—they didn’t need to know which—“and slept on his couch. I’m still, sadly, a virgin. Sorry.”

Johnny banged his fist on the table. “Dammit! You had me excited for a second.”

Taeyong felt a headache coming on. He tried to focus on his work for the next couple hours, pausing every few minutes to pinch the bridge of his nose and squeeze his eyes shut, as if that would stow the pain. Around 11:00, a white mug was placed at his workstation. He looked up to identify who was there.

“You seem stressed out,” said Yuta, in a calm voice. “I’m not sure what’s happening, but you can talk to us. I know Johnny can be . . . impulsive, to say the least, but he means well, and he really does care.”

Taeyong managed a weak smile. “Thanks, Yuta,” he said, glancing happily at the $1 coffee delivery. “Actually, Yuta, can I ask you something?”

Yuta turned in his chair. “Sure, anything. Shoot.”

“Well, er,” Taeyong scratched the back of his neck uneasily, trying to decide how to phrase it, “let’s say, hypothetically, someone that you . . . um, kinda liked, let’s say they—hypothetically—kissed you, but you were both kinda drunk and the next day neither of you mention it. Uh, what would you do?”

Yuta leaned back in his chair and let out a puff of air. “Whoof, that’s a loaded question. Let’s see . . . Well, I’d probably try to talk to them about it. I mean, drunk or no, people don’t just passionately make out for no reason, right? There must be something behind that. And if I liked the person, I’d want them to like me too, so I’d ask about the kiss and see what happens.”

Taeyong nodded, “Right . . . thanks.”

Thankfully, Yuta didn’t press for any information behind Taeyong’s strangely specific scenario. Out of all his friends, Yuta has always seemed the most trustworthy—while he is close with Johnny, he can keep a secret, and is easy to talk to and won’t pry. That was something Taeyong always admired about him.

The day progressed with, surprisingly, no more than one cup of $1 coffee, but, unsurprisingly, a raging headache. He diligently did his work and engaged in idle chatter, but constantly biting at the back of his mind was the kiss, the sweet lip-lock that’d made him weak in the knees and fiery in the chest. He knew he’d never be right on his axis if he didn’t talk to Chittaphon about it, but the very thought made him queasy. What if it was better left forgotten? What if Chittaphon remembers, but regrets it?

At some point around 6:30, he put his head down on his desk and lost the energy to lift it again. He overheard concerned murmurs passed between his friends, and eventually felt a tap on his shoulder. He didn’t get up, but turned his head around to see Johnny standing above him.

“You okay buddy?” he asked. Without waiting for a reply, he continued. “Everyone’s going out for drinks after work. Old Uni guys will be there, too. Coming?”

Taeyong felt there was an obligation. Even though alcohol was the absolute last thing he needed, he had to see his friends, and he needed a distraction. Heavily, head pounding, muscles screaming at him to stop, he got up and agreed to follow Johnny to his car.

Thankfully, they did not go to a club. Blaring music likely would’ve killed Taeyong. Instead, they went to an easygoing bar, which had nice 90’s music pumping gently through the speakers, and low orange lights setting a gentle mood in the room. Taeyong felt calm.

They sat at a circular booth, squished hip-to-hip and shoulder-to-shoulder. Everyone pitched for the tab, and Johnny ordered several rounds of Soju. Yuta and Sicheng didn’t seem to mind the proximity to one another at all, whereas Mark seemed opposed to being practically in Jungwoo’s lap and Lucas seemed annoyed at Johnny’s arm slung around him.

“So, everyone, any updates?” Taeil asked the group, following a toast of Soju shots. “I saw Jaemin and Jeno recently, they seemed fine. What’s been happening in everyone else’s lives?”

“Jeez, hyung, do you have to talk like you’re forty?” asked Kun, sticking his tongue out playfully. “‘Oh yes so I saw the kids the other day, they seem well! Aha-ha, what’s been going on with you lately?’”

Taeil gave him a generous shove. “Shut up! I’m just trying to get a conversation started!”

“I heard from Miss Hee Jung that it’s actually finishing you should be working on, Taeil-ssi,” said Johnny, snarkily.

Taeil’s cheeks went bright red, and he spilled some Soju on the table while trying to hit Johnny. “Sh-Shut up! When did she say that?! You don’t know anything!”

Taeyong rubbed his temples and ignored the ensuing beef. He’d rejected Doyoung’s offer to drink, deciding he’d best not—both because he wanted his headache to actually heal and because he worried he’d end up drunk-texting Chittaphon. He shivered at the very prospect.

“So, Taeyong, how’s that bet with Johnny going?” Jaehyun asked. “I was so drunk I don’t remember you ever making a bet, but it’s been explained to me that you have to lose your V-card in the next three months? How’s that going?”

Taeyong rubbed his eyes tiredly. Perhaps he should’ve just gone home. “It’s not. I’m still a virgin and probably will be until June. I just . . . I don’t want to talk about it now. Is that okay?”

Jaehyun suddenly looked like someone who’d been caught doing something wrong. If he had dog ears, they’d be drooping. “Okay, sorry Taeyong. Is everything alright?”

“Everything’s fine,” Taeyong lied. He felt frustrated not being able to talk to anyone about his plight, about how he’d been kissed for the first time in a while but it had led nowhere, and if he would risk a friendship to seek out more. He felt a little sick, and he hadn’t even drank anything.

“So I hear Chitta . . . Uh, I hear our ‘boss’ is holding a getaway to celebrate another successful publication, and since we technically finished the novel, we get to go with!” said Mark, excitedly. “Free of charge, too. We only have to pay for our own food.”

Johnny rolled his eyes. “How rich is this guy? Does he get a kick out of spending large amounts of money on people? Fake-righteous, I say.”

Taeyong looked at his napkin. Maybe that was all it was. Maybe he just liked showing off and spending his money because he could. Maybe it was never a ‘date’ at all.

“Did he say where we’re going?” asked Yuta, a glimmer in his eyes. “I hope it’s somewhere warm. Summer isn’t coming fast enough.”

Mark tapped his chin. “He didn’t say, but I did hear something about a traditional Japanese onsen? Or maybe that was something else . . .”

“He’s taking us to Japan?!” hollered Taeil, who was probably only half-listening. Johnny immediately reached one long arm over to hit him.

“No, stupid,” said Johnny, “there are Japanese onsens in Korea. ‘Traditional,’ sure, ‘authentic’ is another story. Still, a hot tub is a hot tub.”

Taeyong’s head was killing him. He excused himself and stood up, pulling on his jacket. “Sorry, guys, I’m going to head out early. I’m not really feeling too well. Have a nice rest of the night, it was good seeing you all.”

He was met with perplexed looks and confused goodbyes. He left without another word, hands stuffed into his pockets, trying not to let his head hang. He couldn’t describe the feeling in his stomach anymore—it wasn’t sickness, it was something worse.

“Hey! Taeyong!” someone called out to him on the street. He turned around solemnly to see Johnny jogging after him, breathlessly running a hand through his hair. “I know I took it lightly before, but is everything alright?”

Taeyong was about to reply, but he felt choked all of a sudden, and no sounds would come out of his mouth. He looked at Johnny, who stood and waited patiently for an answer. When he didn’t get one, he cautiously came closer.

“I know I . . . might not seem like the easiest person to get through to,” Johnny said, scratching at his hair, “but I really do care about everyone, even if I’m bad at showing it. You’ve been worrying me lately, more so than usual, and it’s not to do with your virginity. I left you to figure it out but I’m getting increasingly concerned. So please, if there’s something going on, I’d really like to know.”

Taeyong tried to speak, but nothing came out. Instead, he felt hot behind the eyes, a stinging sensation that he tried desperately to ward off, but it came like floodgates opening whether he wanted it to or not. Showing weakness in front of Johnny had always been one of his fears, because he felt for sure he’d be teased—but in that moment, he couldn’t hold it in any longer. Before he knew it, he was crying.

“Oh, goodness, c’mere,” Johnny said, pulling Taeyong into a tight hug. His jean jacket was harsh against Taeyong’s skin but he buried his face in it anyway, shoulders shaking gently with sobs. He wasn’t even sure what he was crying about, but somehow his body felt it was what he needed to do.

“My, my, my,” Johnny murmured, gently rubbing Taeyong’s back. “Is this about your virginity? I’m sorry I’m always pressuring you. You can have sex whenever you want. Should I call off the bet? No hard feelings?”

Taeyong pulled away and sniffled, wiping his cheeks with his sleeve. “No, a bet’s a bet. This isn’t really about that, but . . . Johnny, I have something to tell you.”

Johnny squeezed Taeyong’s shoulder encouragingly. “Yeah? Anything. I know I’m a bit of a blabbermouth but if it’s serious I can keep a secret. Scout’s honour.”

Taeyong fumbled with his own hands. He was nervous and sweating like never before but he knew he couldn’t keep it in anymore. He couldn’t have Johnny as a friend if he couldn’t trust him with such a big part of his life and identity.

“Johnny,” he mumbled, “I’m . . . gay.”

For a moment, there was stillness, a look in Johnny’s eyes that Taeyong couldn’t quite decipher. He seemed blank, slowly processing the information, before it seemed to click, and he inhaled. Taeyong thought he’d die if the seconds dragged on any longer—but then, Johnny chuckled and pulled him close again, squeezing him in a huge bear hug and lifting him off his feet.

When he was put down, Taeyong felt spinny. He was quickly snapped out of it, though, when Johnny dealt a hard punch to his upper arm, and he stumbled back.

“Ouch! What’s that for?!” Taeyong growled, rubbing his arm in careful circles.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Johnny laughed, touching his forehead. “God, and all this time I’ve been throwing women at you thinking I was helping, when really I was doing nothing! You dick. You played me like a fool.”

Taeyong laughed halfheartedly. “Sorry. I wasn’t sure what you’d think if I told you.”

Johnny cracked a smile a shrugged. “Eh, what do I care? S’long as whoever your with doesn’t break your heart, I don’t care what they’ve got between their legs. It’s none of my business. Wait, so, are you actually a virgin or have you just never told because you fucked a guy?”

Taeyong snorted. “No, I’m actually a virgin. So the bet’s still on. Just, if I lose, do me a solid and don’t give me a woman to have sex with. That’s my main concern.”

“Got it,” said Johnny, nodding as if making a mental note. “So then . . . was it a guy who kissed you? Yuta told me—”

“Dammit Yuta!” Taeyong cursed, stomping his foot. “Oh, I trusted that snake! I can’t believe he blabbed!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Johnny bowed his head apologetically, “I made him tell me. Only because I was worried about you. He said you asked him what to do if you’re kissed by someone you like? So did someone kiss you? A guy?”

Taeyong pinched his nose and groaned. “Look, it doesn’t matter. I’m . . . handling it. Anyway I’m glad I told you. I wanted to get it off my chest for a while.”

“Should I tell the others?” Johnny asked. “Or are we keeping this just between us?”

Taeyong hummed. “Well, I want them to know, but . . . I want to be the one to tell them. If that’s okay?”

Johnny nodded affirmatively. “Of course. I’ll let you tell them. Until then, your secret’s safe with me. You gonna be all right?”

“Yeah,” Taeyong smiled, “I’m fine.”

***

The following day, pamphlets were handed out to the Department 5 team for Chittaphon’s getaway celebration, which would be three nights and four days at—Mark was right—a ‘traditional Japanese onsen.’ They’d be leaving in one week, on the 27th of March, and staying until the 31st. Chittaphon was too busy, off working on promotional material for his novel, so the director talked to them about the getaway.

“You’ll be staying at a hotel which doubles as a spa. It is a Japanese-owned onsen, one of few here in Korea. Lee Taeil and Seo Youngho will be roommates, and Mark Lee and Nakamoto Yuta will take another room. Lee Taeyong, you will get your own room, all to yourself,” said the director. “Mr. Leechaiyapornkul will also have his own space. He is paying for half of this trip out of his own pocket, so I expect you’ll all be thanking him genuinely.”

Taeyong felt the world spinning as he looked at the papers in his hand. The onsen looked very inviting in pictures, but he worried about sleeping in a strange room by himself—he’s always been a tiny bit afraid of the dark.

Once the director left, Taeyong excused himself to use the washroom. Looking at himself in the mirror, he had an odd feeling, and a lot to think about—does he have to use the onsen naked? Would it be weird or disrespectful if he brought swim trunks?

The door opened behind him, and he watched in the reflection as Chittaphon entered, distracted by a stickyness on his hands. He was wearing a hoodie from an expensive brand and tight black jeans, the end of a bright-coloured belt hanging down from the waistband. On his head was a fashionable ball cap and on his feet were luxury-brand sneakers.

“Oh, hey there,” he said when he looked up from his hands. He took the sink next to Taeyong and scrubbed his fingers vigorously, cleaning them off with copious amounts of soap. “Business meetings can be fun when we get crafty, but messy too. Glue guns are not that easy to use, I must say.”

Taeyong didn’t care for the absentminded chatter. There was only one thing on his mind.

“So . . .” he began, carefully, muddling with his clothes. “Are we ever . . . gonna talk about it? The kiss?”

Chittaphon stilled for a moment, turning pale. He mustered a smile and tried not to look awkward. “So you did remember.”

“Of course I did,” Taeyong huffed, exasperated. “It was . . . awesome.”

Chittaphon, kind of obviously, fought back a smile. Whether it was out of pride or adoration, Taeyong wasn’t sure—probably the former. “Well, funny things happen when you drink,” he shrugged it off. “I don’t remember much about it.”

“But—” Taeyong sighed. He was red from ear to ear and fighting to find the words. “You . . . You kissed me, we made out, it was hot. I mean, you weren’t that drun—”

“I was!” Chittaphon yelled, and suddenly it was serious. There was a desperate ferocity in his eyes, and his breathing had gone ragged. “I was,” he breathed. “I was very drunk. I was feeling happy and I did something I wouldn’t normally do. I don’t mean to lead you on or anything like that. I made a mistake. Now can we please just forget about it?”

Taeyong felt like he’d been punched in his gut and the air had been wrenched from his lungs, but he shrugged nonchalantly as if he felt nothing. Chittaphon finished washing his hands and began drying them with a towel.

“Thanks, you’re a real one,” he said, disposing of the paper towel. “I’ll see you tomorrow, maybe? I’m not sure when I’ll be free from this publishing business. We’ll see.”

And just like that, he was gone. Taeyong quickly ducked into a stall so nobody would see him cry. He didn’t even know what he was crying about—it’s not like he expected a profession of love or a marriage proposal. Just, maybe, perhaps, a little something better than ‘mistake.’


	8. The Scent of Fresh Spring Water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Easter everyone!!
> 
> (\\_/)  
> = (^_^) =  
>  ("")("")
> 
> Some Notes for this Chapter:  
> ₩20,000 = $24.48 CAD, $19 USD  
> ₩15,000 = $18.36 CAD, $14.25 USD
> 
> So something that should be addressed . . . A little while ago, it was brought to my attention that in Thailand, people actually go by nicknames and not their first names. Unfortunately, I did not know this before and I apologize for my ignorance, but by the time I found out about this cultural quirk, we were already 6 chapters in. I didn't want to come up with some cheap work-around this late in the game, nor did I want to suddenly start calling him 'Ten' without explanation. Thankfully, I've found a sort-of solution as you will all see in this chapter, and as the story progresses he will still be called Chittaphon in writing, but from now on he will usually be called Ten in dialogue. This is the best I could do considering the circumstances; again I am sorry for my ignorance and I thank you all for understanding.
> 
> On a lighter note, as most of you probably know by now, Ten did not pass the physical examination (due to his knee injury & surgery last year) and thus will not have to pull a black/red card nor participate in military service! Now, our prayers are with BamBam that he will pull a black card, as he goes for his exam and card-pulling on the 9th of April. >/)(\< ""
> 
> Anyway, enjoy this chapter and thank you all for reading and commenting!!!

Chittaphon had lied when he said they’d see each other at work the next day. In truth, they didn’t see each other all week—not that Taeyong felt he was being avoided, but they had simply not crossed paths for long enough to have a conversation. Sometimes, Taeyong would see Chittaphon across the room, talking to some of the higher-ups, but he wouldn’t dare get their attention nor go and say ‘hi.’

Presently, Taeyong was spending his night packing for the getaway trip. Come morning, he’d be picked up by Chittaphon—pray it won’t be awkward, though it definitely will—and they’d spend over an hour in his Bentley driving to the spa. 

Taeyong had always been heavy-handed—it’s very likely he won’t need a razor while he’s there, but you never know, right? He packed more shirts than he wears in a week, four pairs of jeans and a pair of sweats in addition to his pajama pants, five pairs of shoes, two separate bags full of toiletries, fourteen pairs of underwear and eighteen pairs of socks, snacks for the road, three jackets, two pairs of swim trunks, nine towels, and a bag full of accessories. Looking at the haul, you’d think he was moving rather than embarking on a four-day trip.

That night—because he’d packed his PJs like a fool—he slept naked. For the first time in a while, he didn’t dream about Chittaphon, and for the first time in a while, he didn’t awaken with an aching heart. Slowly, the time away from the author had ebbed his crush, and he found himself thinking about the kiss less and less. His yearning had subsided. 

Or . . . so he thought. As soon as Chittaphon rolled up the next day, all eye-smiles and perfumy scents, Taeyong was weak in the knees all over again. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder while loading Taeyong’s—multiple—bags into the trunk, and the proximity made his heart pound like an African drum.

Thankfully, they were not alone. Johnny and Yuta had hitched a ride with Chittaphon as well, and were seated cozily in the back. Taeyong was stuck in the passenger’s seat next to “Perfume-McGee,” only a half-empty Starbucks cup and one Sous Vide Egg Bite between them. There were soft tunes playing through the speakers, an easy ballad for an early morning, and it wasn’t long before he was drifting off.

“Hey! Sleeping beauty!” someone whispered—loudly—into his ear, making him start. He turned angrily to see Johnny snickering, Yuta peeking out from the seat behind him. “You were lolling your head. Tired?”

“A bit,” said Taeyong, sleepily, rubbing his eyes. He gazed out at the landscape beyond his window, realizing they’d broke free from the city some time ago—how long had he slept? There were pastures stretching for miles on either side of the freeway, mountains looming distantly over red barns the size of cars on the horizon. The early sun was already creeping toward its apex, just out of sight over the roof of the Bentley.

“Hey, Yongie,” whispered Yuta, “have you told uh . . . Chitta . . . Chit . . . um—”

Chittaphon laughed good-naturedly. “It’s ‘Chittaphon.’ Chi-ta-pon. If it’s easier, my closest friends back in Thailand call me Ten.”

Yuta and Johnny said in unison, “Ten? Why Ten?” 

“It’s my nickname. Most Thai people go by nicknames rather than their real names. Fun, huh?” he said. “When I first came to Korea and was just starting my writing career here, I tried to keep going by ‘Ten,’ because that’s what I’d always been going by, but in a professional field, people wouldn’t take me seriously with that name. I’d always get asked ‘What’s your real name?’ or, even worse, I’d get someone accusing me of being ‘secretive.’ So I ended up switching to using my real name. It was uncomfortable at first, and people here still have trouble with it, but at least I’m not looked down upon anymore.”

Johnny huffed. “That’s unfair. I go by a nickname too, but at least ‘Johnny’ is an actual name, so nobody questions it. Do people you’re close to still call you ‘Ten’?”

Chittaphon nodded happily. “They do! Whenever I contact my friends in Thailand, or my family, they all call me Ten. Even a couple of my closest Korean friends do. If ‘Chittaphon’ is difficult for you, by all means, call me Ten.”

“Okay, then, Yongie,” Yuta brought the attention back to what he wanted to say, “have you told Ten about your exciting experience?”

Taeyong turned around as well as he could and shot him a look that was equal parts worried and confused. 

Yuta edged further. “You know. The kiss.”

Taeyong felt the entire front half of the SUV stiffen. While Johnny and Yuta waited impatiently for an answer, Chittaphon’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, and Taeyong’s forehead broke a clammy sweat. 

“Well, uh,” Taeyong fought for a way out, “I don’t think Chi— uh, Ten, needs to know about that. It’s no big deal.”

“It is a big deal!” Johnny squealed. “It’s your first kiss in, what, a year? More? Yuta told me you were all worried about it . . .”

Chittaphon cracked a smile that only Taeyong seemed able to tell was fake. “Taeyongie got kissed by someone? Who was it?”

“Dunno, he never said,” Yuta murmured, scratching his chin in thought. “Just that it was someone he ‘kind of’ likes. So not only is there someone he fancies, but that person kissed him!”

Taeyong was debating inwardly if the window, rolled all the way down, was large enough for him to clamber out of, and if the speed and velocity at which the SUV was moving was enough to kill him. 

“Someone he likes, huh?” Chittaphon mused, glancing momentarily at Taeyong. “Is that true? Do you like someone?”

Taeyong felt the heat rise in his cheeks. Johnny and Yuta didn’t know it, but the very object of his fantasies was asking him if he liked him. Taeyong wasn’t about to overtly admit his lingering crush, especially not in this context.

“Aha, what? No, there’s no one,” he lied, running a hand calmly through his hair. “I don’t know what they’re talking about. It was just a casual kiss, a one-time thing. Nothing more.”

Chittaphon was expressionless, all readable emotion wiped from his eyes and plastered with something artificial. Perhaps, if only for a split second, Taeyong caught a twinge of hurt—but it could be he was only seeing what he wanted to.

The rest of the ride was spent in blissful silence. Johnny and Yuta put on headphones, tuning each other out, and Chittaphon turned up the volume on the radio. Taeyong played with his hands, his thoughts arguing whether or not he should go back on his word, admit his crush, get it over with. In the end, he remained totally, forcefully, quiet, until they rolled into the gravel parking lot of the resort mountainside hotel.

The walkway was shielded by strong bamboo stalks on both sides, and was made up of uneven cobble and pebbles. Taeyong dragged his luggage down the path, toward the low, single-storey building built of light-coloured timbre, with a slanting roof and large, panorama windows. It hung on the precipice of a the mountain shelf, over an expanse of dense forest and mist, where birds flew high above and far below, and the sky seemed close enough to touch. The air was sweetly quiet, not in a way that forced silence but in a way that promoted serenity. For the first time in days, Taeyong was effortlessly at peace.

They checked in at reception and received rushed directions to their rooms, the onsens, the restaurant, and other spa commodities. Yuta was having a blast flirting with the cute secretary who was dubiously his age in Japanese. Taeyong recognized the words ‘kawaii,’ ‘yokubou,’ and ‘kimochii’ and decided he’d best leave them alone.

His room was in between Johnny and Taeil’s twin bedroom and Chittaphon’s master bedroom. He had a single bed and simple accomodations for one person—a beginner’s bachelor pad. He was offered a complimentary robe, soaps and shampoos, an eat-in menu, a list of—pricey—spa options like massages and acupuncture, and a TV channel guide, but before he could even set his bag down, he received a text from Johnny.

3월 27일, 1:56 오후  
점심 먹으러와 (Come eat lunch)  
우리 식당에 있어 (We are at the restaurant)

Sighing deeply, he left his bags, triple-checked to be certain he had his room key, and went. ‘The restaurant,’ as Johnny had put it, was another building separated from the dorms by a courtyard and zen garden, and the doors were wide open and the entryway blocked with a fabric screen. Some Japanese writing had been painted onto the fabric, but Heavens know Taeyong couldn’t even make a guess what it said—luckily, underneath, in smaller letters, ‘스시와 라면’ was written, and underneath that, even smaller was written ‘Sushi and Ramen’ in English.

All of Department 5, including Chittaphon, were seated at one of the tables by a window. The glass stretched almost from ceiling to floor, as the tables were traditionally low enough to not require chairs, just comfortable mats and plush pillows. Taeyong took a seat between Mark and Taeil and across from Chittaphon, equating to three on each side of the table. A menu had already been set at his place, and he wondered if maybe he’d spent longer in his room than he thought he did.

When the waitress, dressed in full kimono and geisha makeup, came around, Johnny ordered rolls for everyone and a large rice bowl for himself, Taeil ordered shrimp tempura and udon, Mark ordered yaki soba, Yuta ordered some very Japanese dish only he could pronounce, Chittaphon ordered the spiciest thing on the menu, and Taeyong simply ordered more rolls and a cone.

After the geisha collected their menus, bowed politely, and shuffled away, Johnny made a remark about how ‘forced’ the Japanese setting was, which prompted Yuta to argue it was for ‘authenticity,’ which led to a full-scale debate that endured until they’d all gotten their food. Taeyong stomached his food quickly, knowing at some point he’d have to find or make an opportunity to make an announcement that was long overdue.

His opportunity came when Taeil and Johnny finally stopped talking about some pretty girl seated at another table and Chittaphon got up to use the washroom. Taeyong cleared his throat loudly and brought everyone’s attention to him by tapping his chopsticks together.

“Everyone, there’s something I want to tell you all,” he said, swallowing thickly. “This is kind of out of the blue, but it’s something I should have told you all a long time ago, and now that Johnny knows it’s only fair you do as well. So. Um. Yeah.”

“Okay,” said Mark, flatly, “what is it?”

Taeyong breathed in deeply, then said, “I’m gay. I like men. I’m still a virgin but I like . . . guys. If that’s alright.”

There was a moment of silence, then Taeil piped up, “‘If that’s alright,’ he says, like he needs our permission. Silly goose. We don’t care who you like, Yongie. But I’m glad you told us.”

“Lucas owes me ₩20,000,” Mark announced loudly, “don’t let me forget.”

Taeyong turned to his left. “Sorry, did you and Lucas have some sort of bet I didn’t know about?”

“Yeah,” said Mark, “I proposed to him one day that maybe the reason you won’t have sex with girls is because you’re gay. He called me crazy. I said if you come out, he owes me ₩20,000, and if you had sex with a girl I’d owe him. We shook on it.”

Taeyong scoffed incredulously. “You bet on my sexuality with Lucas! I think I should have that ₩20,000!”

The moment was lost in frivolous and excited conversation by the time Chittaphon returned from the washroom. It was like a hundred stones had been lifted off Taeyong’s shoulders, that he was seated at a table with five people who know every bit of his true self and love him anyway, and that they could move on and have a nice chat without dwelling on it. When they’d finished their food, Johnny and Chittaphon split the bill and paid, and the rest moseyed on back to the dorms. Before he could escape, Taeyong was dragged by the wrist into Yuta and Mark’s room, and the door was shut.

“So you really are gay?” Yuta asked immediately, wild-eyed. Mark stood back with a confused expression but said nothing.

“Yeah, I am, why?” Taeyong asked suspiciously. “Do not ask me for any weird ‘favours,’ I will be so pissed if you—”

Yuta released him and sat down heavily on his bed. “Goodness, no, nothing like that. I just have a confession of my own, and I think since you’re gay I can trust you with it before I tell everyone else. Oh, and Mark, ‘cause he’s, y’know . . . Canadian.”

Mark and Taeyong sat on either side of Yuta comfortingly. “Yeah? What is it?” Mark asked softly, touching Yuta’s shoulder.

“Well . . .” Yuta bit his lip and gripped his pant leg nervously. “You know Sicheng and I, we’re . . . kinda . . . a thing, I guess? I wouldn’t say he’s, like, my ‘boyfriend’ or anything yet, but uh. Yeah we’re . . . something. I guess.”

Mark leapt gleefully off the bed and fist-bumped the air. “Yes! Oh, I’m gonna be rich! As well as Lucas’s ₩20,000, Jungwoo now owes me ₩15,000! That dumbass bet Yuta and Sicheng weren’t a thing, even after I told him what Taeil walked in on at Johnny’s last house party.”

“What is it with you and betting on people’s private lives?” Yuta scowled.

“Gets me rich,” Mark winked.

“Wait a minute,” said Taeyong, steering back, “walked in on? What did Taeil walk in on?”

Yuta’s cheeks went beet red and Mark’s eyes sparkled with excitement at the juicy gossip. “N-Nobody told you? I thought everyone knew by now,” Yuta mumbled.

“Not . . . explicitly, no,” Taeyong shrugged. “I was at that party. What happened, exactly?”

Mark sat on the floor in front of them, his face dazzled with intrigue. “You see, they were in Johnny’s guest room, and when Johnny called everyone to assemble, Taeil went to get them. He knocked on the door but there was no answer so he just walked in. He told me and Lucas that when he went in, he saw Yuta leaning against the back of the bedframe, and Sicheng was on his knees sucking his—”

“Okay! Mark, that’s enough,” said Yuta, a flurry of sweat and embarrassment. “We were in a . . . compromising position. I thought everyone knew after that but I still wanted to formally say we’re, y’know, a ‘thing.’ That wasn’t just a drunken accident.”

Taeyong flinched, but he pushed his own drunken ‘mistake’ out of his mind. “Wait, so have you and Sicheng had . . . you know. Have you—?”

Yuta squeezed his eyes shut and wiped his face as if he could rub off the blush. “Yes! Okay, yes. We’ve . . . had sex. More than once.”

“Really?” Taeyong whispered, amazed. “That’s hard to imagine. I never knew you two . . . Wait, who’s the, you know, ‘bottom’?”

“He is . . . Sicheng,” said Yuta, quietly, ears sufficiently pink. “I’m not sure I could . . . I respect him, in a way. Doing that can’t be easy.”

 

Taeyong silently cursed. He was half-hoping Yuta would say he’d received, at least once. He’d wanted to ask Yuta what it feels like, to have a—inside—Goodness.

Mark nudged him with his elbow and waggled an eyebrow. “What about you, Yongie, huh? I know you’re a virgin, but you’ve surely thought about it, right? What d’you think, would you be the prey, or the hunter?”

“Must you put it like that?” Taeyong hissed. “Implying one would be ‘hunted’ . . . It’s simply a question of who gives and who receives.”

“And?” Mark persisted. “Would you give or receive?”

Taeyong flushed a pretty colour. Of course he knew. He’d always known. He had a cold demeanor, some might say, but really his personality was shy and easily swayed or frightened—he was more of the ‘rabbit’ than the ‘fox.’

“I . . . would . . . receive,” he mumbled quietly.

“Whoa, really?” Yuta whispered, eyes wide. “You would do that? I can’t imagine it myself . . . It seems like it takes a great toll on your body. Tiresome.”

Taeyong shrugged. “Perhaps. But I hear it feels damn good. There’s a spot, y’know, down there. It’s like a pleasure button.”

“Pleasure button?” Yuta lifted an eyebrow. “A spot . . . inside? I think I know what you mean. It must feel good. Sicheng, when we’re . . . you know. He squirms and whimpers a lot, so it must feel good as you say. And eventually he’ll say to me, ‘There! Right there!’ Maybe that means I’ve hit this ‘spot’? I never knew. I just did what he said.”

Taeyong tried not to drool. He’d been riotously, fruitfully gay since—well, forever, but he’d known for sure since he was fifteen. He knew a great deal more than Yuta, who was probably more ‘Sicheng-sexual’ than ‘gay.’ 

 

“He . . . really says that? And he ‘squirms’?” Taeyong asked, awestruck. “So you think it does feel really good?” 

Yuta smirked, seeing what this talk was doing to Taeyong. “Yeah. When I get him underneath me, he submits so quickly it’s almost frightening. He’s actually quite vocal, always telling me ‘Yuta-hyung, it feels so good’ and ‘Please don’t stop.’ He often swears in Mandarin, too. He even asked me to ‘talk dirty’ to him in Japanese once. Anyway, he loves it. I couldn’t imagine doing it, but if you’re into it . . .”

“Okay, you homosexuals!” Mark shouted, pushing them apart and sitting in between them. “I won’t stand by and let you jack each other off. Stay loyal to Sicheng, Yuta. Lord almighty.”

Taeyong looked at his feet. He wouldn’t— With Yuta? Would he? He’d never thought of it before. “He was flirting with that secretary before . . .”

“I was just having a li’l fun, ‘cause she’s Japanese and was probably surprised to hear me speak it,” Yuta shrugged. “I’ve no plans to take anything further with her.”

Nonetheless, Taeyong was promptly kicked out of their dorm, even though it wasn’t his idea to go there in the first place—rude. He decided he’d relax his head and his awkward semi with a dip in the onsen, and went off to quickly get some things from his dorm. 

He changed into the swim trunks he’d decided after all to bring, collected a towel, and wrapped a robe around himself. The onsens, like the restaurant, were separate from the dorm building, on the other end of a different path through a bamboo forest. He felt them before he saw them—a warm, wet heat, steam creeping through the bamboo fronds and tickling his feet.

He went into one closed-off area that seemed empty. He opened the gate with his room key, walked in, and immediately considered walking back out—for the only soul there, seated comfortably in the steaming spring water, was Chittaphon.

“Hm? Oh, Taeyong,” he peeked an eye open and saw him. Taeyong froze. “Where are you going? No worries, you won’t disturb me. Come.”

Reluctantly, but at the same time excitedly, he went, disrobing and stepping gingerly into the hot pool. He sunk into the water, the heat seeping into his skin and easing his bones. He relaxed with a sigh.

Chittaphon watched him from a comfortable distance of about five feet. For a long time, they said nothing to each other, neither wanting to address the ‘elephant in the room.’ Taeyong opened his eyes, and Chittaphon quickly looked away, at the sky, at the birds. After a few more tense moments, they both spoke at once.

“I just—” started Taeyong.

“Look, I—” began Chittaphon.

Both stopped. They looked at each other in awkward silence for what seemed like forever. Finally, Taeyong piped up.

“You go ahead.”

“No, you go,” Chittaphon insisted.

Taeyong took a deep breath. “I know you asked me to just forget about it, but . . . I can’t. I’m sorry. I can’t understand why you would kiss me like that, and then tell me it was a ‘mistake.’ Please, can we just . . . talk about it?”

Chittaphon hung his head. “Yeah, it . . . it wasn’t right what I said. I was harsh. I’m sorry. But . . . I did make a mistake. I shouldn’t have kissed you. None of this should have happened.”

“But why?” Taeyong asked, almost pleadingly. “You’ll probably disagree, but, God . . . I really liked it. I liked when you kissed me. It felt amazing. I don’t want it to have been a mistake.”

“You’re right,” said Chittaphon, “that I would disagree. I didn’t like it.”

Taeyong felt sick. He’d said too much again, hadn’t he? It wasn’t enough to lose Chittaphon as a kisser, he had to lose him as a friend. 

But then suddenly, Chittaphon was close to him. Very close. Taeyong thought he was dreaming, but then Chittaphon leaned in, and he felt his breath on his ear as he whispered:

“I loved it.”


	9. The Scent of Sweat and Breath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello All ^~^
> 
> I'm so glad the last chapter was well-received! I hope things are not moving too fast or too slow for your liking :)
> 
> Small warning (though the 'E' rating should've been warning enough already), things start to get dirty in this chapter and that will only increase as we move forward ;3
> 
> I've been wondering, do we have any other writers-to-be in the audience? Or simply people who enjoy writing and language? If so, always know I am totally open to giving any advice and tips and helping in any way I can! I've noticed a lot of people love my writing (thank you very much ^^) and I'd like to help out others with dreams if and when I can.
> 
> Thank you always for your continued love and support!! Enjoy this chapter :3

“I loved it.”

Taeyong gulped audibly. Chittaphon was so incredibly close, one of his smooth hands resting teasingly on Taeyong’s thigh under the water, lips millimetres from his ear, nose brushing his jawline. Taeyong thought he’d pass out from the heat.

“Y-You did?” he squeaked, voice trembling and breath hitching with nervousness.

“It was so amazing, Taeyongie,” Chittaphon whispered, almost sounding pained. “I loved it so much and I can’t stop thinking about it. Every fibre of my body yearns to do it again.”

Hearing those words sent chills down Taeyong’s spine and right to his groin, pooling there like an electric shock and making him whimper. With Chittaphon’s hand right next to his crotch, he did not want to be hard, but in the moment he couldn’t stop it.

“But,” Chittaphon said, in a normal voice, and moved away—not very far, but far enough that Taeyong could breathe again—“I can’t. God knows I want to give in and just . . . indulge myself but, you must understand, I can’t. It’s too risky.”

Taeyong panted, desperate for the closeness again. “Why? Because you’re kind of my ‘boss’?”

“That’s . . . a small part of it,” Chittaphon admitted sheepishly, “but more than that, I can’t . . . I don’t want to put my heart on the line again. Taeyongie, do you know why I haven’t dated in over a year?”

Taeyong shook his head. He couldn’t even guess where this was going. 

“Before I signed with Daydream, I was under a different publishing house—Treble. I left because . . .” he trailed off for a moment and searched for words. Then, he looked up at the clouds and said, “I fell in love.”

Blinking, Taeyong said nothing. He felt jealousy creep under his skin but he didn’t know why. He edged a little closer, inviting Chittaphon to continue.

“Her name was Kim Soo Mi, and she was . . . my editor,” he sighed heavily, rubbing his eyes. “I thought it was dangerous, a pretty woman my age being so close to me. I was worried. But slowly, we fell in love, and we dated—in secret—for over two years, while pretending to be just colleagues.”

Taeyong nodded, understanding the similarity in the situations. “Well . . . what happened, then?” he asked.

Chittaphon laughed bitterly. “I thought she was perfect. I thought we were perfect. I was so, so wrong. After all the time we spent together, everything I did for her, everything I bought for her . . . I found out she’d been having an affair. With another, Korean, man. We fought for hours and I found out she’d been having affairs almost our entire relationship. She told me, ‘You really think I’d marry a Thai?’ I found out then how horrible she really was. I’d never known.”

“Holy . . .” Taeyong’s forehead creased and his eyebrows knitted together. He went closer and touched Chittaphon’s shoulder gently. “That’s awful. She even had to be racist about it . . . I’m so sorry you went through that.”

Chittaphon nudged his hand off. “Yeah, well, it is what it is. She stormed off and I left Treble Publishing the following morning. We never saw each other again. That’s when I promised myself I wouldn’t date any of my editors, it’s just too dangerous. And I was doing so well until . . . You.”

Taeyong flushed. “M-Me? What about me? I mean, I understand where you’re coming from an’ all, but really it was just a kiss—”

“It was ‘just a kiss’ with Soomi, too,” Chittaphon snapped. “Then one accidental smooch became two, three, then suddenly she was waking up in my bed every morning. I lack self-control, Taeyong. I may seem composed but I’m not. I never should’ve kissed you in the first place and that’s that. But it happened, so now we have to move past it. Please, I don’t want to lose you as an editor or especially as a friend.”

Taeyong took a long, deep breath. He felt his heart had sunk into his stomach, making him sick. Nevertheless, he couldn’t go against Chittaphon’s wishes. “Okay,” he sighed, “we’ll be ‘just friends.’ And business partners. I’ll . . . forget about it.”

Chittaphon smiled warmly, but there was a sadness within him. “Thank you, Yongie. I’ll leave you alone now. But first, can I just . . . get this out of my system?”

“Get wha—”

And they were kissing again, suddenly, the water heating up to 250° all around Taeyong, their wet hands pressing against each other’s skin; and Taeyong was trembling, and daresay moaning against Chittaphon’s lips. He felt that electricity again, coursing through his blood, biting at his very core and going straight to his—

Just like that, it was gone, and Chittaphon was climbing gracefully out of the water—stark naked, smooth as the day he was born, and . . . not completely flaccid. Taeyong’s mind buzzed. That’s an image that will haunt him later.

And it did—for the first time, Taeyong let himself imagine Chittaphon’s full, naked form. The indentation of his spine, the curve of his lower back, his supple legs, and his completely hairless stomach. He would like to say he didn’t let his thoughts get the best of him, but let’s be honest—that wrist will never get a break.

As he lay spread-eagle on his bed, breathing heavily, chest heaving, hand just above his deflating erection, a mess all up his front, he heard the ‘ding!’ of an alert on his phone. Reaching, he opened it, and revealed a text from Yuta:

3월 27일, 4:47 오후   
온천을 가자!! (Let’s go to the spa!!)  
변신이 싶어 :) (I want a makeover :))

Taeyong, especially in his current state, could definitely use a makeover. He’d never been the type for ‘girly’ spa routines, but perhaps he could enjoy himself just once—besides, could he pass up an opportunity to spend time with the only other non-heterosexual he’s ever known?

The spa facilities, much like the restaurant and the onsens, were separate from the dorms. Taeyong arrived in pajama pants and a bathrobe, finding Yuta in the lobby playing a game on his phone. 

“Yo,” he said, sitting next to Yuta in the waiting area. Yuta closed the game and gave him a smile, all sunny and heart-shaped.

“I’m glad you came!” Yuta squealed, doing a little ‘happy dance.’ “See, I’ve never had anyone besides Sicheng I could talk with when it came to topics that were . . . less-than-straight. But I can’t exactly talk to Sicheng about, well, Sicheng. Mark interrupted us before, but now I hope we’ll have time to really talk.”

Taeyong was a little apprehensive, but also very glad that Yuta felt the same way. He’d gone his whole life keeping his boy obsession on lock, bottled up, and he’d never been able to express it to anyone. 

Yuta spoke in Japanese to the spa ladies, which seemed to please them, and Taeyong wasn’t sure what kind of order had been made, but he was stripped of his robe and PJs and underwear, given a towel, and led into the facility. They were directed to a thick wooden door and Yuta gladly led the way in.

Inside was hot, steam coming from a pile of heated rocks in the center, which had a bottle of water next to it in case the steam ever became too thin. Yuta sighed heavily as he sat on one of the benches, leaning back to absorb the atmosphere.

Taeyong wasn’t quite so relaxed. “What kind of treatment did I pay for? You did the whole transaction in Japanese. I barely understood fractions of it.”

“I got us the basic ‘all-rounder’ treatment. I figure after all our hard work, we deserve it,” said Yuta, proudly. “After this quick dip in the sauna, we’ll get massages, special baths, and mani-pedis. How’s that sound?”

“I’ve never gotten a manicure,” Taeyong mumbled, looking at his unevenly-clipped nails. He thought perhaps it’d be nice to finally sort out his cuticle situation.

Several minutes were passed in comfortable silence, enjoying the warmth and the stagnant, thick air. At a point, Yuta poured water over the rocks, creating a puff of steam—that was something that wrenched an almost childlike reaction out of Taeyong.

After, they were led by the spa professionals to another area, where they were laid down on their stomachs on tables. Yuta relaxed easily, while Taeyong tensed up under the rough hands that applied massage oil to his back.

“Oh, I needed this . . .” Yuta sighed dreamily, shutting his eyes for a moment. “So Taeyongie, you’re a virgin, but you must’ve done something. What’s the furthest you’ve been with a guy?”

Taeyong flushed, recalling the memory with fondness but also a twinge of embarrassment. “Well, uh, it was . . . in my last year of high school. He was an international student from China, so obviously neither of us expected much out of our relationship, but we fooled around a little.”

Yuta gave him a sly look. “Ooh, saucy. From China? What was his name?”

“It was . . . Oh, what was it?” Taeyong cursed, touching his forehead. The masseuse rubbed rough circles in his shoulders, and just then he realized how tense he was. “Oh! Xukun. It was Xukun, but he once told me to call him ‘Xiao Kun.’ Something about endearment . . . ?”

Yuta laughed, but the sound was riveted thanks to the masseuse’s rapid chops along his back. “That’s cute. I must confess, I’ve called Sicheng ‘Xiao Cheng’ before. He gets all shy and embarrassed when I do. Oh! I’ve also playfully called him ‘Cheng-chan.’ He hit me for that.”

Taeyong laughed earnestly. He was aware of the slightly confused glances being passed between the spa employees, as they overheard the strange conversation but weren’t allowed to say anything. For some reason, Taeyong didn’t feel self-conscious—for the first time, he talked openly about his experiences, and he wasn’t alone.

“So, this Xukun,” Yuta mused, “was he cute? How long did it last with him?”

“Oh, Yuta,” Taeyong moaned, “he was gorgeous. Truly. I kick myself every day for being too nervous to get serious. He was such a treasure, the kind of face you might only meet once in a lifetime. We ‘dated’ casually for about a month. He had his group of international friends that he hung out with—you know, the group that all speak Mandarin to each other, don’t interact with anyone else, wear expensive brands, and have half the female student population thirsting after them? Well, jokes on the girls, because their dearest Xukun was a flaming homosexual.”

Yuta laughed out loud. The confused glances were getting more intense but Taeyong didn’t care, he went on. “Obviously, Xukun was way out of my league. I don’t know why he ever noticed me. Maybe I was the only other gay kid in a 10-mile radius. Regardless, we met up in secret after school and made out. Nobody even knew we were friends, let alone that we were kissing buddies. And he was such a good kisser, with great lips and technique . . . The farthest we got was mild palming and, once, rubbing against one another. I never even got to see him naked, and I am so mad about that!”

Yuta smiled gently. “That’s the farthest you’ve been, huh? Wow. And it sounds like you had quite the catch . . . You, Lee Taeyong, are a stupid man.”

They were moved to the next station, where they got to choose their own special bath, each kind offering different ‘healing’ properties. Taeyong chose the Rose Petal Bath, which apparently promoted fertility and ‘intimate’ health, while Yuta chose the Fruit Bath, which offered an energy boost. Really, it was just a large bowl of water filled with fruit and berries.

Taeyong sunk into his pink water, rose petals in flirty colours floating all around him. Even if the boasted ‘properties’ didn’t really work, the water still smelled fantastic, and after a massage it was twice as relaxing to just sit and soak.

“It took Sicheng and I a long time to admit our feelings,” Yuta said, eating from the fruit bowl that was beside his bath, separate from the fruit inside his bath. “I felt it was obvious he liked me. He was never good at hiding it. Me, I was crazy for him, but I wouldn’t show it. Finally, we were at Johnny’s place for another one of his ‘get-togethers,’ and after everyone else had fallen asleep, Sicheng and I started making out in the kitchen. It came completely out of nowhere, we just looked at one another and started kissing.”

“That sounds hot,” Taeyong said, motioning for Yuta to pass him a grape that he then popped in his mouth. “What about your ‘first time’? How did you decide the roles?”

Yuta snorted. “It was obvious he would be the ‘bottom.’ He’s so submissive. It happened at my place, after we spent a night out together—the typical dinner and a movie. He came over to watch some Netflix, and then, well . . . heh.”

Taeyong played with a pink petal floating in his water, trying to make it sink. “And . . . how was it? Did it go smoothly?”

“It was excellent, but I wouldn’t say it went ‘smoothly,’” Yuta shuddered, chewing at a strawberry. “Sicheng hadn’t had much experience, and as for me, it was my first time with a guy. To put it frankly, I . . . didn’t use enough lube. He was hurting the next day, but in the moment we both enjoyed it. A lot.”

Taeyong shook excitedly, letting his fingers dance at the surface of the water with restless curiosity. “What do you think it was like? You know . . . for him?”

“Right, because you said you’d be in his position,” Yuta leaned toward Taeyong in his tub, pressed against the rim. “Well, I don’t wish to brag about my prowess, but . . . Sicheng was completely wrecked. In a good way. Sweaty, gripping the sheets, back arched, mouth agape and moaning out obscene sounds beyond his control. He mumbled a lot of dirty things, too. Kid is super kinky in the right setting.”

Taeyong felt his lower lip quiver. “What kind of things?”

They were brought out of the tubs and carefully dried, their hair styled and taken care of with natural scrubs. The spa attendants led them to another space, where they were seated in chairs and beauticians immediately began working on their hands and feet. Taeyong had never been so overwhelmed.

“He would say all kinds of things within the spectrum of ‘just kinky enough,’” Yuta said, with a face like he was fondly remembering. “It was always when my ear was close to his mouth, because he was too shy to say it loudly. He’d say ‘Yuta, it feels so good inside me,’ and ‘Yuta, don’t stop, please,’ and ‘Yuta, I’m so full, it’s so big’—heh, not to boast.”

Taeyong was beet-red in the face, from nose to ear-tip. He couldn’t imagine himself saying any of those things—then again, he couldn’t imagine Sicheng saying those things, yet apparently anything can happen in the heat of the moment.

“Anyway, enough about me,” Yuta waved his hand—the one that wasn’t being worked on—in the air. “How about you? I know you probably don’t have much to tell, but is there someone you like right now? What happened to that one that kissed you?”

Taeyong shrugged awkwardly. “The one who kissed me . . . It seems to be an unrequited affection. I was kissed but . . . it was a mistake and we were just drunk. So, that person doesn’t like me, and I guess I can’t like them.”

The beautician finished one hand and moved to the other, and Yuta observed his newly-done nails. “That’s just rude. Making out with you, leading you on like that, then saying they made a drunken mistake? Ha! I call bullshit. Either way, though, you deserve better, Taeyong. Is there anyone else you can move your fancies to? You’re running out of time for Johnny’s bet—”

“I know, I know, it’s on my mind all the time, Yuta,” Taeyong huffed. He tried not to giggle as the beautician worked on his toes, which tickled a great deal. “I’m trying to forget about the kiss. I said I would. Oh, but it’s so hard!”

Yuta reached over and put a hand on Taeyong’s shoulder, irritating the attendee who gently pulled him back to his chair. “I get it, Yongie. I don’t think I’d get over Sicheng easily, if it came to that. I’m really sorry you have to go through this.”

“I’m used to it,” he sighed, dejectedly.

When their nails were finished, they reveled in their new cleanliness, and walked out of the spa with a chorus of ‘thank you!’s. Yuta departed to enjoy some time with Johnny—something about hiking trails?—and Taeyong returned to his room, flopping onto the bed with a deep huff. He felt refreshed after the treatment and conversation, and made a mental note to thank Yuta profusely sometime.

Not feeling tired enough for a nap, he decided to break out the Rune novelette he’d stuffed in his bag last-minute. It was one he’d read already—he’d read them all—but not in some time: ‘Love on the Course,’ about a jockey who falls in love with a stable boy. He propped the pillows up and flipped open the paperback.

“ Jeongin, tired and sweaty and huffing as he came down from the energy of the race, held loosely to the reins of Darcy, the muscled thoroughbred who had her neck craned down to gulp water from a trough. Jeongin couldn’t wait to hand her off so he could change out of his tight slacks and leather boots, which were soaked with sweat and grime. He was put off after not winning the race he and Darcy had trained so hard for, and was in need of a pick-me-up.

Just then, Ansel, the gorgeous foreign stablehand, approached, his hands and boots muddy and his forehead pricked with perspiration from the heat. His blonde hair was pushed back and his blue eyes, though tired, sparkled with determination.

‘Shall I take Darcy from you?’ he asked, in cutely broken Korean. He still had a strong English accent and anglicized pronunciation, and Jeongin had to try not to laugh.

Wordlessly, he handed Darcy over, and Ansel took her reins gingerly in his porcelain hands. Jeongin had never thought of himself as far from fair, but next to the beautiful foreigner his skin was arrogantly dark. ”

Taeyong adjusted his position and his groin, flipping quickly to the ‘good part.’ 

“ He had the boy cornered in the tack room, door locked and windows shielded by wear and hanging saddles. Ansel looked nervously aroused at the sight of Jeongin’s dark expression, his eyes hooded and swimming with untelling emotion. He went closer.

‘I’ve seen the way you look at me, English boy,’ he said, exaggerating each syllable so Ansel would understand him clearly. 

Ansel whimpered, pressed against the brush shelves. ‘I-I’m sorry! I just— You—’

‘Are you queer? Do you think I’m attractive?’ Jeongin asked, though he knew Ansel would not understand the word ‘queer.’

‘Y-Yes . . . You’re— Um, how do you . . . ? I like your face?’ he said, voice cracking under the pressure. ‘I’m sorry! Just please don’t hit me! Please!’

Jeongin thought about the way a bruise would bloom so vibrantly against the clear colour of Ansel’s skin, and about the pride he’d feel leaving a blemish on its perfection. But, a bruise was not the kind of mark Jeongin wished to leave.

‘You ever sucked dick?’ he asked, but knew immediately by the lost look on Ansel’s face that he didn’t understand those words. Jeongin searched for a way to convey it—a tap to Ansel’s pink lips, then with the same hand a grip to his own crotch. Ansel seemed to understand, his eyes flying open and his cheeks turning a riotous red. Jeongin whispered, ‘Have you?’

‘Y-Yes . . . I have?’ Ansel murmured slowly, as if he wasn’t sure if that was what Jeongin was trying to ask. 

‘Would you do it again?’ Jeongin asked, then braced a hand against the lockers and leaned in close, whispering, ‘Now?’ 

Ansel was on his knees in seconds. ”

Taeyong’s insides were boiling. He’d already, only hours prior, jacked off until his bicep ached and his wrist screamed for the warm comfort of the brace, but somehow his young and spry body was begging to go again. The talk with Yuta had reawakened his tired libido, and now it was whispering dirty things in Taeyong’s ears, coaxing him to its will.

Stuffing a hand under the waistband of his PJs, he tested the waters, wondering if he’d be met with a sting of resistance—instead, it was a twitch of pleasure, a quake that ran up from base to tip, a quiver that made his hairs stand on end. Slowly, balancing the novelette open with one hand, he rubbed carefully, biting his lip so nobody would hear him moan.

Suddenly, moments later, a knock sounded at the door. He cursed silently and debated whether he should answer, but then the knock came again. Angrily, he balanced his raging erection under the elastic of his briefs—so it would be invisible to an untrained eye—and went to open the door.

He immediately regretted it. Uninvited, Chittaphon strolled cheerily into the room, the nearly-finished copy of Rune’s ‘In Words He Trusts’ clasped in his hands, and sat himself at the edge of Taeyong’s bed. 

Eyes sunny, he placed the manuscript in his lap and looked at Taeyong, who tried not to look like he was concealing a boner. “I realize we never got much work done on this novelette. Our night out interrupted that work session, and then I was so busy with my novel publication that we never got back to it. But! Here I am. Are you available to work?”

No, no, absolutely not. In his current condition, working with the man of his dreams on his kinkiest novelette yet would be a complete disaster. Clenching his teeth, he closed his door and said, “Yeah, I’m available.”

“Great!” Chittaphon said happily, that crescent eye-smile making Taeyong melt. It was hard to believe this was the same man who’d made his heart nearly stop with his honeyed words and touches in the onsen only hours before.

Taeyong went and sat where he was before, leaning against propped pillows. Following him with his eyes, Chittaphon’s gaze rested upon the paperback lying open on the nightstand. 

“Oh, reading ‘Love on the Course,’ eh?” he mused, waggling an eyebrow. “That’s one of my personal favourites. Enjoying it?”

“I’ve read it before already,” Taeyong murmured, flushing. “It’s one of my favourites too. One of the . . . kinkier ones, though.”

Chittaphon sneered good-naturedly, “You like those ones, don’t you? Let’s not forget about that poor wrist of yours. I’d like to say, I feel honoured that my writing pushed you to such extremes. Makes me feel . . . accomplished as an erotic author.”

Taeyong went pinkish and narrowed his eyes. “Right. My pleasure.”

“I’m sure it was,” Chittaphon winked, then cleared his throat to bring them back to the subject at hand. “As you know, this novelette is pretty much done,” the author said coolly, “and your notes have brought it nearly to completion. There’s just a couple of things I’ve yet to discuss with you, then I can send it to my ‘underground’ publishers as a finished product.”

Taeyong was only listening with one ear. As Chittaphon flipped through the pages, and Taeyong’s eye caught the odd word—‘pleasure,’ ‘hole,’ ‘cock,’ ‘come’—he began to sweat profusely. He knew he’d made a horrible mistake letting Chittaphon in, but his feverish libido kept telling him perhaps this encounter was exactly what he was looking for. Perhaps, he thought, sinking deep into his naughty subconscious, Chittaphon would notice his dilemma, and decide to ‘help him out.’ Perhaps Chittaphon would set his length free from its confines, lick his lips, bend down, press his hot tongue against—

“ . . . and I was wondering about what you thought of the ‘salty surprise’ joke in Chapter 7. Comic genius, or is it cheesy and should be written out?” Chittaphon was saying, pointing at words on a page. Taeyong’s mind was spinning and he felt dizzy. He blinked several times.

“Sorry . . . What was that?” he asked, shaking his head to clear the twitch-inducing images. 

Chittaphon didn’t seem bothered repeating himself—he is a man of many words, after all. “The ‘salty surprise’ joke in Chapter 7. Stupid or no?” 

Taeyong remembered that joke vividly—rather, he remembered the scene in which it was featured. It was when Jaegi and Taehyun were going at it for the first time on the couch in Taehyun’s apartment. He remembered the in-depth descriptions of how Jaegi felt, bent over the back of the sofa with Taehyun’s hand grasping the hair at the back of his head, hips crashing against Jaegi’s rear with reckless abandon and a fearful lack of restraint. He remembered the shakes as he rubbed his hand up and down his shaft, biting his lip until it bled, the burning pressure at the base as he felt it—

“Taeyong!” Chittaphon raised his voice, snapping him out of it. When Taeyong startled, coming back to reality, Chittaphon softened. “Are you all right? You seem out of it.”

“Sorry,” Taeyong mumbled sheepishly, “just zoning out. I’m a little distracted.”

Chittaphon looked at the novelette on the nightstand, then at Taeyong, then back at the novelette, then back at Taeyong, and then his eyes drifted downward. When he looked back up, he had a sly look in his eyes. “Did I . . . catch you at a bad time?”

Taeyong jumped, looking down at his crotch—did he know? Did he see? As it turned out, his unruly hard-on had escaped from its elastic binding several twitches ago, now sitting against his thigh with the pride of a five-year-old who’d made a big mess indoors. There was a very obvious, very distinctly shaped lump in his pant leg, and Taeyong felt his heart stop.

“If you were—ahem—busy, you could have said so,” Chittaphon mused, “I don’t mean to interrupt.”

Taeyong pulled his shirt over his groin and scrambled away, red from ear to ear. “N-No! I wasn’t— I, uh, well, I was just— It was . . . not super important . . .”

Chittaphon closed the manuscript and looked at his own lap, then leaned over and set the book on the nightstand next to ‘Love on the Course.’ There was something unreadable in his expression, turned just shy of Taeyong’s view.

“Clearly, you cannot focus in your current state,” Chittaphon sighed, “but we must work on this eventually. Oh, what to do . . . Perhaps I should leave you alone for a bit? Come back later?”

Taeyong could barely stand the shame and embarrassment. “No, no! It’s totally fine! I’m good! I can work!” he pleaded.

Taeyong held his breath as Chittaphon came closer, and lost all that air when the author leaned over and placed a hand on the lump in his pants, slowly wrapping his short fingers around his shaft and squeezing lightly, meeting no resistance.

“No, you can’t,” Chittaphon concluded, not moving away, instead rubbing slowly in an upwards motion, stopping at the tip. “It’s like an iron rod. You’re even sweating. Don’t kid yourself, Yongie, you can’t focus at all.”

Suddenly his voice had become quiet and sensual, flowing like melted butter. Taeyong was quivering, dizzy, clenching his fists until his nails left marks so he wouldn’t twitch wildly in Chittaphon’s hand. “It’s just— It’s because you— You’re— Ha-aah . . .”

Chittaphon’s hand traveled down again, to the base, and he snaked closer, eyes looking right at Taeyong’s face. Taeyong thought it all must be a dream—his mind had snapped off again, his libido providing these raunchy images, it was all in his head. But the sensations just felt too real, the warmth of someone else’s hand, their unfamiliar technique, something he hadn’t felt in, well, years. Unable to help it, his eyes fluttered closed, his lips parted to let hot air travel through in quiet pants, and unconsciously he spread his thighs farther apart. 

By surprise, there was a sudden pressure against his lips, and he was frightened before he realized he was being kissed, tenderly at first but it deepened rapidly, before it became a whirlwind of clashing tongues and teeth. Chittaphon’s hand was moving faster, squeezing harder, twisting, and Taeyong thought he would combust.

When they finally pulled apart for a moment to breathe, Taeyong asked between harsh puffs, “But . . . you said . . . You said you made . . . a mistake . . . You asked me to . . . forget. Why—?”

Chittaphon looked away in frustration. “I told you I possess a lack of control,” he said through gritted teeth. “Seeing you like this, hearing you, how can you expect me to stay sane? I’m losing my mind, Taeyong. I know I shouldn’t do this, I should stop, walk away . . . But I suppose what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.”

“But, hyung,” Taeyong panted, “we’re in . . . Andong . . . ?”

“You know what I mean,” Chittaphon snorted. Without another moment’s hesitation, they were kissing again, lips smacking together hotly, goosebumps rising chillingly all over Taeyong’s skin. It was a perfect blend of fire and ice, hearts pounding in their chests, beating against each other’s bodies. 

And then, Chittaphon was gone. A mess, Taeyong opened his eyes to search for him, and found he hadn’t gotten far—he was straddled in Taeyong’s lap, gyrating his hips in slow circles, looking down at him with dark, hooded eyes. If looks could kill, Taeyong would be six feet under before he could say ‘Goodness.’

“I’d like to get back to work, but this isn’t enough, is it?” Chittaphon whispered, honeylike, sliding off Taeyong’s lap and bending down to leave butterfly kisses on his jaw and neck. “What do you want? I know you’re thinking it. Tell me.”

He was definitely thinking it, but he wouldn’t dare say it aloud. He tingled with embarrassment at even the thought of saying what he was thinking, no matter how badly he craved it. As Chittaphon sucked red marks into his neck, his back arched and his muscles stiffened, and he mumbled out, “Your . . . mouth. I want your mouth . . .”

Without another word, Chittaphon was there in a flash, pulling his PJs and his briefs to his thighs in one swift motion, letting Taeyong’s length spring free and fall against his stomach with an obscene slapping sound. Shy, Taeyong curled around himself, pulling his legs up to hide his—honestly, well-maintained—shame. 

Smirking playfully, Chittaphon removed Taeyong’s pants and pushed his knees apart and down, so his legs were on either side of his hips. He pushed Taeyong’s shirt up to expose his stomach, making Taeyong squeal quietly with embarrassment. 

“Why so coy? You’re too modest,” Chittaphon purred, placing a kiss next to Taeyong’s belly button. “Look at this lean, pretty abdomen. And your size . . . isn’t bad. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Nobody’s ever seen me naked before. Not like . . . this,” Taeyong mumbled into his hands, hiding his face. It was all happening so quickly, making ruddy patches appear all over his skin, and he realized he was capable of blushing even on areas that weren’t his cheeks.

Chittaphon smiled devilishly. “I’m liking the view, Taeyongie. You’re beautiful.”

Taeyong peeked out from behind his fingers, just in time to see Chittaphon stoop his head and gingerly lap at the triangular spot just below the very top, and a shiver traveled up his entire body. It was hot and cold at the same time, so slick and soft and wet, and Taeyong felt his insides liquify. It wouldn’t take long.

“Good?” Chittaphon whispered.

“Uh-huh,” he mewled.

Chittaphon shuffled lower, flattening his tongue against the base and dragging it up the entire length, first in a straight line and then again in a squiggly line, the second time finishing by wrapping his lips slowly around the entire tip, hollowing out his cheeks and sucking hard, before popping off with a loud sound. Taeyong’s back was arched and he had the sheets balled in his fists, biting his bottom lip to keep his noises in. 

Chittaphon stretched up and kissed him passionately, taking his lips out from the confinement of his teeth. When he pulled away, he whispered, “Don’t hold it in. I want to hear you.”

Taeyong wanted to protest, but before he could say a word, Chittaphon had slipped him into his mouth again, teeth expertly out of the way and tongue dancing around the circumference. Against his proper will, a small cry escaped, ringing high-pitched into the air and bouncing off the walls. Chittaphon made a pleased hum, sending wonderful vibrations, then slipped down until the end of his nose brushed against Taeyong’s trimmed hairs and the tip of Taeyong’s length hit the back of his throat.

That was it—all shyness flew out the window in a flurry of hot, wet pleasure. Taeyong’s muscles tensed almost dangerously and he moaned, out loud, forgetting about the possibility of being heard. Chittaphon seemed proud, beginning to bob his head faster, move his tongue more, and Taeyong thought he was dreaming.

Everything reached a white-hot crescendo, and then he woke up. Snapping open his eyes, he saw the evening sunlight filtering through the blinds over his window, giving the room an orange glow. Chittaphon was between his naked legs, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve, suddenly calm. Then he leaned forward and they kissed, and Taeyong could taste himself on Chittaphon’s tongue, and oh—it wasn’t a dream.

Taeyong sat up, shyly collecting his briefs and PJs. He felt pressured and knew he was being watched. When he sat back down, he coughed awkwardly. “So . . .”

“Better now?” Chittaphon cooed. 

“Uh, um, uh y-yeah,” he sputtered. 

“Awesome!” the author clapped his hands together. Taeyong pretended he didn’t see the rod-shaped bulge in his jeans. “Can we work now?”

***

3월 27일, 7:43 오후  
나를 온수 욕조에 만나 (Meet me at the hot tub)  
유타 나중에 오고있어 (Yuta is coming later)

Taeyong looked at the text from Johnny as he made his way to the onsens. He and Chittaphon had worked for a while until the author had left on his own business, and Taeyong, bored, had thankfully been invited out. The trick was to not let Johnny know he’d gotten his game on—he wasn’t sure if he was at liberty to talk to anyone about it.

“Wait!” Johnny shouted almost as soon as Taeyong entered the threshold of the onsen. He was pointing directly at Taeyong’s neck. “Yongie! Yongie has a hickey!”

Darn it. Slowly, Taeyong lowered himself into the hot water. Yuta was actually already there—so much for ‘later’—and was staring, astonished, at the very large, very pink mark on the right side of Taeyong’s neck.

“. . . Right. Forgot about that,” he mumbled, placing his hand over the hickey. “Can I say I bumped my neck on something?”

Johnny—naked as the day he was born—sloshed over to Taeyong and swatted his hand away, inspecting the mark. “No, that’s definitely a hickey! Yongie, did you lose it?”

He huffed. “No, don’t get ahead of yourself. It’s just a hickey, and I’m still a virgin.”

“But you . . . y’know, got it on?” Johnny edged. “Did the nasty? The sideways tango? The frickity-frackity?”

“Gross, no,” Taeyong made a sour face, “I just said I’m still a virgin. It was nothing fancy. Nobody was inside anyone.”

Yuta perked an eyebrow. “Geez, when you say it like that, it sounds like there was a group. You into some freaky stuff?” 

Taeyong reeled. “What! Of course not! Don’t be ridiculous. It was just me and one other person. One!”

Yuta and Johnny exchanged glances. Johnny scooched closer again, leaning in until his nose was almost touching Taeyong’s. “So what did you do?”

“That’s . . . not really important,” Taeyong muttered. He pushed Johnny away and turned to Yuta, asking, “Does Johnny . . . know? About . . . ? I have something to ask you.”

“Yes, I told him earlier,” Yuta admitted. “What’s your question?”

Taeyong paused, then waded closer to Yuta. “You’ve given Sicheng a . . . blowjob, right?”

“Yeah?” Yuta mumbled sheepishly.

“Can you give me any tips?”


	10. The Scent of Temptation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helloooo!!
> 
> Does anyone ever read these notes or am I talking to myself? They are important sometimes okay!!
> 
> Thank you for your patience as I slowly update this story on an irregular schedule. I do take breaks in between writing chapters, so once I finish one I usually leave a day or two before I start another. 
> 
> I must say, one of the toughest things about writing a coherent story is keeping track of the timeline—my goodness!!
> 
> Also, why do I feel like I relate to a "fat udon noodle"? Leave a comment if you, too, relate to a fat udon noodle!!!
> 
> Enjoy this chapter everyone ^~^

“Now, tell me,” Yuta looked at him quizzically, his hair sticking up in places due to the humidity of the water, “why on Earth would Lee Taeyong ever need blowjob tips?”

Taeyong didn’t know what to say. Johnny was giving him an up-and-down glance with a sly fox’s grin, looking almost predatory. 

“I’ll tell you why, Yuta-chan~” Johnny cooed, wading closer to Taeyong again. “Our little boy is all grown up. Someone went down on him and he wants to reciprocate. Am I right?”

Taeyong sunk down until his lips were halfway underwater and started blowing nervous bubbles. Ears reddened, he mumbled, “Yeah.”

“I’m always right,” Johnny concluded triumphantly. “But!”—he interrupted Yuta, who was about to continue—“Before you gays start discussing dick-sucking techniques, I want to know who this mysterious partner of yours is, Taeyong.”

“Is it the same guy who kissed you that time?” Yuta asked, excitedly wide-eyed. 

Taeyong saw no way out of it. “Um, yeah. Same guy,” he said quietly, running a wet hand through his clammy hair.

Johnny and Yuta exchanged glances. “So the one who kissed you is here? Now? With us?” Yuta asked, awestruck, his hands clasped together under the water like a high-school girl being dealt the latest gossip.

“Um, yes,” Taeyong winced. He wasn’t sure if Chittaphon was comfortable with his friends knowing what they do in private, but there’s nothing Taeyong can do about Johnny’s deduction skills.

Johnny raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips in thought. Something told Taeyong that he knew something he wasn’t saying, but he kept his mouth shut, and Yuta seemed none the wiser.

“So this guy does like you after all!” Yuta exclaimed, clapping his hands. “You told me he was leading you on for nothing.”

“It’s . . . complicated,” Taeyong shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not sure he really ‘likes’ me.”

Johnny rolled his eyes and gave Taeyong a gentle shove. “Then make him like you!” he argued, giving him a schooling look. “He’s kissed you, and he’s given you a blowjob. Clearly there’s something there. Whatever’s holding him back, I think you can make him see past it. He’s teasing you? Well, Yongie, tease him back!”

Taeyong gave Johnny a bewildered look. Tease Chittaphon? The thought had never occurred before, and although it made a lot of sense, Taeyong had never been the ‘alluring temptress’ type. 

“That’s a great idea!” Yuta said enthusiastically. “If he’s gone this far with you, he definitely wants you. All you have to do is make him want you even more. I can say, teasing someone is really fun. Sicheng gets all squirmy . . .”

Johnny interrupted him. “If you like this guy, don’t let him push you around. You’ve also got little more than two months to lose your virginity, so best pick up the pace.”

Taeyong pressed a flustered hand to his own heated cheek. “I’m not like that, though! I can’t just— I don’t even know how to— What, do I wave a magic wand and then—?”

“You’re exhausting,” Yuta yawned, stretching his arms above his head. “I believe in you, Taeyongie. Believe in yourself a little more. Anyway, I feel light-headed, so I’m getting out. See you around!”

Yuta got out, and Taeyong averted his eyes from his naked form. He took a towel and walked off, disappearing behind the shutting wooden gate. 

Johnny turned to him and lowered his voice. “Yuta’s right. Believe in yourself. I think you can do it,” he said, almost in a whisper. “He likes you more than you know.”

Taeyong startled. “. . . Who?”

“Ten-ssi,” said Johnny, nudging Taeyong a bit. “It’s him, isn’t it? Don’t worry—I won’t tell anyone. Then again, I did promise that same thing to him . . .”

“Wh-What do you mean?” Taeyong murmured, slightly fearful but oh, so curious. Johnny was the type who knew everything about everyone in his circle—it was impossible to keep any secrets from him, which was sometimes surprisingly beneficial.

“You’re not the only one who spends time around our Ten-ssi,” Johnny grinned. “Of course, he’s not sucking my dick, but anyway . . . we’ve talked. You wouldn’t believe how much he talks and asks about you, and the look in his eyes when he does . . . You’ve already got him, Taeyongie. You’re not the only one with a crush.”

Taeyong’s mind was spinning. Chittaphon talks about him? When he’s not around? “What kinds of things does he say?” he asked cautiously.

“Seemingly normal, curiosity-based questions, and stories about you he finds funny,” Johnny shrugged. “I know better, though. I see the way he looks at you when your back is turned. I once asked him why he talks about you so much and so amiably, and he said, ‘You won’t tell him, will you?’ Oopsie.”

Taeyong was too shocked to speak. He stared blankly at Johnny, mouth slightly agape, trying to imagine Chittaphon talking ‘amiably’ about anyone. Johnny chuckled and patted his head, then got out of the onsen without another word and disappeared the way Yuta had gone. Taeyong stayed for another long while, sitting in silence until his fingers were sufficiently pruned.

***

Back at his room, half-dry and fresh out of a cold shower, Taeyong stood by the window in boxers and a bathrobe. He was still reeling from what Johnny had said, but also feeling very weighted from the suggestion Yuta had made. He realized while he didn’t know how to ‘tease’ someone, he knew someone who did. He shot a quick text to Jaehyun.

3월 27일, 9:04 오후  
재현아 안녕 (Hi Jaehyun-ah)  
넌 바쁘니? (Are you busy?)

Nervously, he awaited a reply, thinking about what he might say. Firstly, Jaehyun had no idea about Taeyong’s sexuality, so he would have a lot of explaining to do beforehand. His thoughts were interrupted by a buzzing in his hand.

3월 27일, 9:05 오후  
아냐 (Nope)  
난 루카스와 함께 있어 (I am with Lucas)  
뭐야? (What is it?)

Taeyong cringed for a moment. Lucas . . . He meant well, though he was very loud and tended to overreact to every little thing. Nonetheless, he was—even more than Jaehyun—their group’s ‘playboy.’ If anyone knew how to tantalize, it was those two.

3월 27일, 9:06 오후  
문제 있어 (I have a question)  
우리가 할 수 있는 스카이프? (Can we Skype?)

Jaehyun replied almost immediately.

3월 27일, 9:06 오후   
응응! (Yes yes!)  
루카스는 널 만나게되어 기뻐 (Lucas is excited to see you)

Taeyong tied up his bathrobe and opened his laptop, finding Jaehyun’s Skype account and calling him. It took a couple moments for him to answer, but when he did, the screen opened to Jaehyun and Lucas in Jaehyun’s room, bathed in ugly yellow light and poor-resolution pixels.

“Taeyongie!” Lucas yelled excitedly, blasting his laptop speakers. He was bouncing on Jaehyun’s bed, making a big fuss. “How’s your trip? We miss you!”

“It hasn’t even been a full day,” Taeyong chuckled, rolling his eyes playfully. “It’s been fun. Nice onsens. Not much to do but it’s comfortable and relaxing, and sure better than work.”

Jaehyun made a sour, jealous expression. “Don’t mind him, we’ve been drinking a little. What did you want to talk about?”

Taeyong felt heated. He messed with his fingers nervously, searching for the words. “Well, before I can get to that . . .” No matter how many times he says it out loud, it never gets any easier. “I have to tell you something. I already told everyone who’s here with me, but you guys back at home don’t know yet . . . I’m gay.”

Jaehyun opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Lucas leapt off the bed and brought his face close to the screen. “What! That’s so cool! Taeyongie, what does a dick taste like?”

“Aish!” Jaehyun growled, shoving Lucas away. “Don’t make me send you to another room! Sorry, Taeyong. Anyway, that’s nice. Thanks for telling me, but um . . . how is it relevant?”

Taeyong felt relieved at their kind acceptance. He stopped fiddling with his hands and cleared his throat. “Well, there’s a guy that I, um, like, and Yuta says I should try to seduce him—it’s a long story, don’t ask. I know you two are sort of the experts on flirting, so I wanted to ask you . . . how do I seduce him?”

Jaehyun thought for a moment, tapping his chin. “I know how to flirt with girls, but that’s a little different. I can’t tell you how to flirt with girls. I’m sorry, Taeyong, but I don’t know if I can help you.”

Frustrated, Taeyong kept trying. “Okay, well, maybe you can’t tell me how to flirt with a guy, but you can tell me what works when girls flirt with you. Because, I’d sort of be in the ‘girl’ position, if you know what I mean.”

“Ooh! I know I know!” Lucas insisted, putting his hand up as if he were in class. “Wear your best, tightest pants, and bend over in front of him. I know when a girl does that I can’t help but look at her ass. And! What really gets me going is when she straightens back up, and glances over her shoulder at me, like she knows exactly what she’s doing.”

Taeyong flushed. He did own tight pants, and when wearing them he had admired his own rump in the mirror once or twice, but would Chittaphon really be into that?

“Hmm, I see what you mean now,” Jaehyun murmured. “If you’re eating with him, lick your lips a lot, and look at him when you do. And do it slowly! Oh, and if you get something on your finger—especially if it’s something white, like whipped cream or custard—suck it off sensually. Don’t forget to make eye contact!”

That had all sorts of implications, Taeyong realized. He felt hot. These were all cliché movie moves, and he wondered if he’d be able to pull them off.

“Or, if you’re a man of subtlety,” Lucas said scholarly, “try little gestures, like leaning close to him, touching him gently when you can, playing with his hair, laughing at his jokes. Try to be close to him. Look at him a lot. And smile! Show interest.”

Jaehyun nodded. “And if you can get him to talk about sex, do it. It’ll get him thinking. Most of all, Taeyong, be yourself. You’re funny, charming, and cute—really. You can use that to your advantage. Don’t be afraid of it.”

Suddenly, he felt more confident. Jaehyun always had a fatherly way of speaking that made him feel he could do anything—really, considering his persuasiveness, if Jaehyun wanted to be a powerful dictator, he could.

“Thanks, guys,” he said with a smile, “that really helps. I think I can do it now.”

Lucas had disappeared from view, but Taeyong could hear him yelling something unintelligible at Jaehyun’s dog. Jaehyun looked toward the sound, annoyed.

“Sorry, Taeyong, I’ve got to put Lucas to bed,” he said, a twinge of gentleness in his voice. “Glad we could help. Have fun the rest of your trip! Oh, also, can I tell the others about, y’know, that you’re gay?”

“I’d like to be the one to tell them, if that’s okay,” Taeyong said.

Jaehyun nodded, understanding, before being startled by a loud scream, a thunderous thud, then sounds of a struggle. Moments after, Jaehyun’s dog Arya sauntered in with one of Lucas’s shoes in her mouth.

Low, exaggerated moaning could be heard as Lucas grieved for his shoe. Exasperated, Jaehyun mumbled, “The bigger they are, the harder they fall.” Lucas wandered in the room, cheeks streaked with tears, and tried to fight Arya for his possession. “I should go,” said Jaehyun, and the screen went blank.

Laughing, Taeyong closed his laptop and decided to drown himself in late-night KBS reruns until he passed out from exhaustion. It had been a very, very long day.

***

3월 28일, 1:46 오후  
태용이 바쁘니? (Taeyongie are you busy?)  
점심 먹으러 가고 싶니? (Do you want to go for lunch?)  
나 배고파~~ (I’m hungry~~)  
태용이이이이~~!! (Taeyongiiiieee~~!!)

Taeyong was awoken by multiple buzzes on his nightstand. His phone was going crazy, but he felt too groggy to check it. He’d watched lame KBS shows until his brain had rotted into juice, and when he’d been woken up at almost 2 P.M. the next day, the TV was still on, broadcasting a new episode of Hello Counsellor.

When he finally found the strength to lift his head and check his phone, he discovered multiple texts from Chittaphon, asking to go for lunch. Surprised, he remembered what he’d spoken to Jaehyun and Lucas about the night before, and realized a lunch date would be the perfect opportunity to use what he’d learned. He quickly typed a reply.

3월 28일, 1:54 오후  
네네 (Yes yes)  
저는 올 거예요 (I will come)  
어디예요? (Where are you?)

He got up and discarded his bathrobe and boxers, changing into briefs and then rummaging through his suitcase for the perfect outfit. He thanked the Heavens he’d packed his ‘good jeans’—grey worn-wash with rips at the knees, and wonderfully snug around the hips. He paired them with a tucked-in button-up shirt, undid the top button so it would show his collarbone, and rolled the sleeves up to his elbows. He applied a gentle amount of makeup, styled his hair, put on sleek black canvas shoes, and rolled the bottoms of his pant legs up. Ready, he checked his phone.

3월 28일, 2:01 오후   
레스토랑에 (At the restaurant)  
나를 만나 (Meet me)

He quickly made his way out of the dorm building and down the gravel path through the zen garden and to the restaurant. Chittaphon was waiting outside, dressed in darkwash ripped jeans, a patterned button-up, and a black bomber jacket. He was looking at his phone, and didn’t notice Taeyong approach.

“Hi,” Taeyong said softly, standing a little bit closer to Chittaphon than he normally would. Chittaphon didn’t seem to notice nor care; he looked up cheerily, pocketed his phone, and led the way inside.

They sat opposite each other on mats. Chittaphon seemed at ease, completely his usual self, as if nothing out of the ordinary had ever happened between them. In some ways, Taeyong was happy there was minimal awkwardness, but he was also put off by Chittaphon’s nonchalance.

“So, what’s the occasion?” Taeyong asked, leaning his weight on an elbow and looking at Chittaphon in the face. 

Distracted by the menu, Chittaphon shrugged. “Nothing really. I wanted to see you. Of course, I have a new novel idea brewing I’d like to discuss, but that can always wait.”

Taeyong was frustrated. If Chittaphon was interested in him at all, he did a damn good job of hiding it. There was nothing in his body language nor the way he spoke that gave away his inner feelings, as though his skin was a steel wall shielding all his thoughts.

When the waitress came around, Chittaphon ordered the soup special and a platter of rolls, and Taeyong ordered a rice bowl and udon noodles. There was silence for several minutes after their menus were collected, and Taeyong wasn’t sure what to say.

Thankfully, Chittaphon broke the tension. “So, Taeyongie,” he said, “tell me again why you never became a writer? You said that was your dream, originally.”

“I’ve wanted to be a writer since I first read one of your novels,” said Taeyong, shyly. “You’ve been publishing since you were . . . ?”

“Sixteen,” said Chittaphon, proudly, “but my novels didn’t take off until I was eighteen, and I wasn’t signed onto a proper agency until I was nineteen. I joined Treble Publishing when I turned twenty . . . that’s where I met Soomi, and you know the rest.”

“I always admired you,” Taeyong admitted bashfully. “Your whole career, doing what you love, it all took off at such an early age. Now you’re rich and well-known, and you’ve still got your whole life ahead of you. I wanted that too.”

Chittaphon gave him a sympathetic but exasperated look. “Then why didn’t you pursue it?”

“Because I’m a coward,” Taeyong said, deflated, his shoulders drooping. “I was too afraid of failure, and too critical of my own work. I sent in a manuscript once and it got rejected, and I guess that crushed me. I know I should’ve kept trying but . . . I couldn’t.”

Chittaphon seemed to understand, but he passed Taeyong an encouraging smile. “You know, J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter got rejected seven times before some low-brand publishing agency decided to give it a chance,” he said, running his index finger along the rim of his water glass. “Now look at it: A multi-million US-dollar franchise, with eight movies, a spinoff series, and even its own theme park. I’m not saying things will work out that well for you—they seldom work out that well for anyone—but it does pay off to keep trying. My ideas got rejected all the time! Even now, sometimes the first people I send a manuscript to at Daydream turn it away and tell me I can do better.”

Taeyong felt slightly uplifted by his words, but still there was a swathe of bitter resentment and fear clouding the back of his mind. “That’s encouraging, but it’s too late now,” he sighed. “I’ve chosen my path as an editor. Don’t get me wrong, I like my job. I just wish you’d told me this when I was eighteen and just starting Uni.”

“It’s never too late, Taeyong,” Chittaphon said warmly. “Martha Stewart didn’t find success until she was forty-one. Vera Wang didn’t design her first dress until she was forty. Colonel Sanders didn’t start the KFC franchise until he was sixty-two. Charles Darwin was fifty when he published his first book on evolution. Taeyong, you’re twenty-two, you have your whole life ahead of you to do whatever you want as well. If you’re happy as an editor, that’s awesome, but remember the great thing about writing is that you don’t have to choose. You can do both.”

Taeyong was astounded at the wisdom and encouragement that was coming out of Chittaphon’s lips. He only wished they had met sooner—for a moment, Taeyong imagined what might’ve happened if they’d met in University. Maybe Taeyong could’ve helped nineteen-year-old Chittaphon as his unofficial editor. Maybe they could’ve kissed before Chittaphon joined Treble Publishing, before he met Kim Soo Mi, and then maybe Chittaphon’s heartbreak never would have happened. Maybe Taeyong could’ve become a writer under Chittaphon’s guidance, and together they could’ve lived happily, in love, side-by-side as equals.

Alas, they hadn’t met back then. Taeyong had first seen Chittaphon in person a little over a year ago, when he’d joined Daydream Publishing at age twenty-two (almost twenty-three). They had never spoken until Monday, March 10th, eighteen days—or about two and a half weeks—ago. Taeyong reeled as he realized he’d only really known Chittaphon for a short time, yet he was already head-over-heels for him.

Their food was brought to them, and Chittaphon thanked the waitress and looked down at his plate hungrily. Taeyong nervously slurped at the fat udon noodles, doused in broth and flavoured with pieces of chicken and vegetables. Chittaphon’s mouth was stuffed with a yam tempura roll.

“I must say,” Chittaphon mumbled through his mouthful, “I personally think you’d make a great author. You have a high understanding of the Korean language, and you know a lot of tips for better writing—it’s what makes you such a good editor.”

Taeyong flushed at the praise. Fourteen-year-old him would’ve melted into a puddle to hear his favourite author say that. Now, he simply dipped his head in thanks.

They ate in silence for a while. Taeyong gazed out the window, watching mountain birds flutter by and wind tousle the leaves in the trees. Chittaphon was busying himself writing notes in a notebook—his writing was so messy Taeyong couldn’t read it, but then he realized he was writing in Thai.

“What are you writing?” Taeyong asked gently, unsure whether it was private or not.

“Brainstorming ideas for my new novel,” Chittaphon said, clicking his pen. “I have a rough sketch, but it’s not fleshed out yet. Want to hear it?”

Taeyong nodded enthusiastically, so Chittaphon cleared his throat. “It’s about a young, twelve-or-so year-old Japanese boy named Hayato Kaede,” he explained. “Kaede finds himself tied up with gang activity after witnessing the murder of his father by the Yakuza. He eventually falls for the Yakuza leader’s daughter . . . ? Anyway it gets complicated.”

“Writing about someone Japanese this time,” Taeyong nodded appreciatively. “Ambitious of you.”

“Yes, well, for the first time ever, I have a Japanese person on my editing team,” Chittaphon beamed. “I’m hoping Nakamoto-ssi will be able to correct me on any cultural faults. So, Taeyong, for this next project, you can focus on editing the writing format, plot progression, dialogue, all that technical stuff, and let Nakamoto-ssi worry about the setting accuracy.”

“Got it,” Taeyong nodded. “Have you ever thought of setting a story in Thailand?”

Chittaphon pondered. “I have. The thing is, I still face some racism from Koreans who think I should stick to being famous in my own country. I’ve spent my career trying to prove I know just as much about Korea as anyone else. Writing a Korean-language book about Thailand, as a Thai author who uses his Thai name . . . it would be a bold move, for sure.”

“That’s bull,” Taeyong scoffed. “You’re Thai. So what? Your Korean may be better than mine. Besides, no matter your ethnicity, you’re the author. You should write about what you want—who cares what those racists have to say?”

Chittaphon smiled warmly. “I’m glad to hear you say that. Maybe next time I shall write about Thailand. We’ll see what happens.”

They finished their food and Chittaphon paid the bill—despite Taeyong’s protests. They stood up and, as Chittaphon was putting on his jacket, his bank card went flying out of his pocket and danced across the floor, landing behind them both.

Taeyong saw his chance. Before Chittaphon could move, he turned and bent to pick up the card, taking his sweet time and relishing in the crawly feeling that ran up his back, telling him he was being watched. When he straightened again, he glanced over his shoulder, and caught Chittaphon’s gaze—which quickly flicked up from wherever he was looking before, just in time to innocently pretend he saw nothing.

Taeyong could almost taste the sizzle between them, the crack of lightning that shot between their steady gazes, as they both knew what Chittaphon had been looking at, and they both knew that the other knew. Wordlessly, though without breaking eye contact, Taeyong passed Chittaphon his bank card.

They left the restaurant, and Taeyong could feel Chittaphon bristling, but not in an angry way—rather, he was riled, shifted uncomfortably in his seat of easy nonchalance. 

“Shall we go to the bar?” Chittaphon asked, trying to sound relaxed but there was a hitch in his voice that gave him away.

“So we’re day drinkers now?” Taeyong joked. 

“Hardly . . .” Chittaphon shrugged, watching the sun as it slipped slowly towards the horizon.

“What do you mean ‘hardly’? It’s only just after 3 P.M.!” Taeyong argued incredulously. “Nevertheless, yeah, let’s go. As long as there’s desserts.”

There were. Chittaphon ordered a selection of cream puffs and small cakes to go with their imported Japanese beer. Taeyong enjoyed a bite-sized cheesecake, savouring it before he swallowed thickly, then licked his lips. He remembered to glance at Chittaphon, flicking his eyes up as he swiped his tongue across his upper lip. He saw the author grip his napkin tighter.

While he had Chittaphon’s attention, he noticed a drop of whipped cream from the cake had ended up on his index finger, and he wasted no time licking it off; he dragged his tongue up across the spillage, then put his whole finger past his lips, drawing it back out slowly. Chittaphon drew in a sharp breath and looked away, but Taeyong could see a faint redness under his foundation and painting the tips of his ears.

“So,” Taeyong said coolly, realizing he was having fun now that the tides had turned, “what did you get up to last night? You know, after you left my room.”

It was a dangerous question—mentioning the night before was a risky move, it was too possible Chittaphon would be scared off. But he wasn’t; he turned easily in his seat and took a swig of beer, breathing through his blush.

“I went back to my room,” he said smoothly, biting into a cream puff and licking off the whipped cream it left on his bottom lip. Ah, so two could play at this game. “Did you know my dorm has its own patio, with a small, private, onsen? Well, that’s where I was, enjoying a cocktail.”

Taeyong broke free from his gaze only for a moment, to drink from his own bottle. Then, he looked back. “That’s lucky. I wish I had a private onsen.”

“You can come to mine,” Chittaphon said, in a voice so sultry it carried all kinds of meanings behind it. Taeyong was plunged into a hormonal fit—he realized with a mix of excitement and fear that Chittaphon would not be swayed so easily. No, for the cat bites back.

Taeyong decided he wouldn’t back down. He was going to have to push harder. “Perhaps I will. If I did . . . what would we do there?”

Chittaphon’s right eyebrow twitched, as if to say, “Oh, how bold.” He leaned forward and lapped a tongueful of whipped cream out of his half-eaten pastry, then said, “It’s closed off. With no one to bother us, we could get up to all sorts of things. How was my mouth, by the way?”

Taeyong’s mind was swirling at how quickly this had become a power play—who would make the other quake first? He’d always been timid when it came to conversations like this, but suddenly, in the moment, he felt a surge of confidence and determination to win. He was like a man possessed.

“It felt amazing, Ten-hyung,” he said, his voice edging on wistful, “but now it’s my turn. I can’t wait to taste you.”

Chittaphon’s jaw locked, his face frozen, steam practically coming out his ears; then suddenly, there was a loud cracking sound, and the author grunted in pain as he ripped his hand away from his beer glass, which had shattered and allowed the frothy liquid to spill all over the table, and a shard of glass had cut into Chittaphon’s palm.

With a sudden feeling of pride, Taeyong realized Chittaphon had been so tense he’d been squeezing his glass, and at Taeyong’s final words he’d squeezed it so hard that it broke into pieces. Then, worry overtook him, as he saw blood trickle down Chittaphon’s forearm. 

“Jesus! Are you alright?” Taeyong asked, collecting napkins to press to Chittaphon’s palm to stop the bleeding. The author, although cut and soaked, was in good humour, laughing at his own stupidity.

“See what you do to me, Taeyongie?” he chuckled. “I didn’t even realize I was . . . anyway. I guess you win.”

Taeyong, without thinking, mumbled out, “What’s my reward?”

Chittaphon turned his head to look at him, and because Taeyong was bent over him pressing napkins into his hand, their noses brushed together and their lips were almost touching. Taeyong’s heart began to beat faster.

Before he could answer, some waiters came around and cleaned up the spill, cleared away the glass, and provided Chittaphon with towels and bandages. He quickly wrapped up the slice in his palm and sat back, opening another bottle of beer and pouring it into a new cup, which he decidedly kept his hand off of except to drink. 

“Since you’re suddenly Casanova,” Chittaphon teased, “let me ask you some risqué questions. I’m curious about your . . . preferences.”

“I like men,” Taeyong shrugged, sitting back down, “that’s my preference. That’s all there is to it.”

“Not . . . exactly what I meant,” Chittaphon hummed, then narrowed his eyes. “I meant more like . . . Which sex position would you prefer?”

Taeyong’s eyes widened for a moment and he squirmed in his seat. Suddenly the air felt thicker and blood pounded in his ears. Why would he possibly want to know—? 

Shaking his head to clear that train of thought, he decided it best not to guess why Chittaphon would ask such a question. “I um . . . obviously don’t have enough experience to say for sure, but I guess I would like . . . missionary? That’s pretty vanilla. I guess if we’re talking kinkier then . . . from behind. Bent over something or on my hands and knees.”

Chittaphon lifted an eyebrow, clearly roused but trying not to show it. “On . . . ‘your’ hands and knees,” he echoed, “that answers my second question, then.”

Taeyong was beginning to sweat. He’d guessed Chittaphon was more accustomed to the dominant position, but he was never certain. “I’m very much a bottom,” Taeyong said shamelessly. “I don’t know if you could tell that from the everything about me.”

Chittaphon laughed, covering his mouth with his hand. “I figured, yes, but I wanted to be certain,” he said. Then, he shifted, and leaned across the table. “What are your views on . . . preparation?”

“My views?” Taeyong asked flatly. “I’d like some. I’ve heard it hurts badly if I’m not prepared well. Of course, I’ve never had anything ‘inside’ so I wouldn’t really know.”

“You’ve never even touched yourself ‘down there’? How resilient,” Chittaphon mused. “Anyhow, you’d like to be ‘prepared.’ So that means lube aside from that which is already on the condom?”

“It sounds like you’re making a checklist,” Taeyong said suspiciously. “But anyway, yes, that means extra lube. Especially because— Er, actually, nevermind . . .”

“No, no, continue,” Chittaphon insisted.

Taeyong turned a deep scarlet. Although, for the first time ever, he felt comfortable talking freely about sex, he felt saying what he was about to was a step too far. But with Chittaphon’s eyes on him, willing him to continue, and Taeyong’s wish to tease him, the words wriggled their way out.

“Well, I mean, I get that you should use a condom even if you can’t get pregnant, y’know ‘cause safe sex and all,” Taeyong rambled, “but I’ve abstained—not exactly by choice—so I know I don’t have any diseases, so if I knew my partner was also clean . . .”

Chittaphon’s eyes widened slightly, and he swallowed harshly before his lips parted, and Taeyong could tell by his breathing that his mouth had gone dry. “Taeyong,” he rasped, “what are you saying?”

Emboldened by the effect his words were having, he cleared his throat and went on. “I’m saying since I don’t have any diseases and I can’t get pregnant, if my partner didn’t have any diseases, then . . .” he paused, suddenly shy, and rubbed his hands together nervously. Then, he mumbled, “I wouldn’t mind . . . not using a condom.”

Chittaphon let out a few shaky breaths and looked at the tabletop, blinking rapidly, ears tipped a fluorescent pink, and Taeyong knew he was hard. When he looked back up, his eyes were dense with heat and lust, so bluntly unmasked it almost made Taeyong keel over and roll off his chair.

“You . . . You would . . .” Chittaphon sounded choked, disbelieving and needy. “You would do it . . . raw?”

Taeyong nodded self-consciously. Chittaphon breathed hard through his nose, like a bull that was riled up and ready to charge. His shoulders were hunched and his expression had changed—it was almost like he was another person entirely.

“But, what if . . . what about . . .” Chittaphon shook his head as if trying to clear a jumbled mess of thoughts in his head. “What about when your partner ‘finishes’? What then?”

Taeyong’s body temperature rose again, and he shrank into himself, embarrassed. “Then . . . I guess . . . Inside?”

Chittaphon banged a fist on the table, attracting many confused and irritated voices their way. He was agitated, ragged, driven mad by every word that came from Taeyong’s lips.

“You would let me come inside you?” 

The question came out clearly, and suddenly it was personal. Suddenly, Taeyong’s hypothetical ‘partner’ had been given a name, a face, and he was sitting right across from Taeyong.

Taeyong shivered. “Yes,” he squeaked.

Chittaphon growled, frustrated, at his wit’s end. Redness had seeped into his bandages as he squeezed blood out of his injured hand from clenching his fists so hard. He was tapping his foot on the floor, either as a distraction or out of habit. His breathing was shallow.

“Are . . . Are you hard?” Taeyong asked innocently, in a low voice.

“Yes!” Chittaphon shouted, disrupting other patrons again. He lowered his voice. “I could cut diamonds right now. God, I— You— Fuck, I want you.”

It was so raw and honest that Taeyong’s mouth watered. He was pressing uncomfortably against the zipper of his jeans too, and wasted no time saying, “Should we . . . go to your room?”

Chittaphon’s eyes, filled with wanton desire, flashed at the suggestion. It was clear that was what he wanted, so badly—to take Taeyong to a bed behind a locked door, have his way for a merciless few hours, ravage every inch of Taeyong’s untouched body. But, he didn’t respond immediately. He hesitated.

Breathing deeply, he sat back calmly in his seat. “God, I want that,” he said truthfully, eyes gleaming with regret, “I want that so badly. I want to just . . . take you and have you and make you all mine, but . . . Taeyong, you’re a virgin.”

“Is there something wrong with that?” Taeyong asked defensively, suddenly bristling, taken aback by the response.

“No, no, not at all!” Chittaphon quickly confirmed. “In fact, that makes me want you more. But it also means that you’re . . . softer, more inexperienced. Your first time should be gentle and slow. If I took you to my room right now . . . I don’t know what I’d do. I can’t control myself in this state. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t—”

“I don’t want to risk it, Taeyong!” he yelled. “Kissing you was a bad idea. Sucking your dick was a bad idea. Bringing you here today was a bad idea. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be leading you on like this. I should go. Please, don’t text me for the rest of the day.”

He got up, pants still damp from earlier, swung his bomber jacket over his shoulders, and left without another word. Taeyong was alone to cover the cost, and then he, too, retreated to his room, defeated and with a part of him broken.


	11. The Scent of X and Y

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello y'all :)
> 
> So, little bit of a shorter chapter this time. I was tempted to have TaeTen make up and maybe get it on, but people were asking for some jealous pining so I thought I'd drag it on a little ;) Plus, a couple people have been asking for Cai Xukun to make an appearance, so we'll see what happens?
> 
> If you want to stalk me on my social medias, URLs are in my account description, but I'll put them here now:
> 
> My Personal Instagram Account: @f.awkes_  
> My K-Pop Fan Account: @sshhhiiinnneeeee  
> My Snapchat: @sadiecheesecake  
> My General Tumblr: @ultragarnentthings   
> My K-Pop Tumblr: @g-i-p-p-e-u-m   
> My Aesthetic Tumblr: @saide.moon   
> My Facebook: Sadie Hunt 
> 
> Please feel free to message me anytime or start streaks!! Don't be creepy and steal my identity or something though ^^""
> 
> Enjoy this chapter!!

3월 29일, 10:34 오전  
내 방으로 와 (Come to my room)  
우린 아침 식사를 먹고있어 (We are eating breakfast)

Taeyong had spent a long, wakeful night distracting himself with bad cartoons and cellphone games. He had gotten barely a wink of sleep, and now sat lying restless in his bed, the weak morning sun shining through the windows, dirty pajamas bunched around his limbs and no doubt tremendous bags under his eyes. He stared at the text from Johnny and realized he’d rather do anything else. What if Chittaphon is there? On a normal day, that would excite him, but as it stood there was nothing he wouldn’t rather do instead. Unfortunately, if he didn’t show, he’d be hearing about it for the next three weeks.

Grudgingly, he stood up and put on whatever fell into his hands—plain blue jeans, an old grad sweater with a hole in the sleeve, dirty sneakers. He left the dorm and traveled down the hall, where Johnny and Taeil had the room closest to the reception desk.

“Hey! Yongie!” Johnny sang. Taeyong looked around the room—Yuta was battling Mark for the last scoop of butter, Taeil was munching tiredly on nearly-burnt toast, and Johnny had a glass of orange juice in his hand. Thankfully, Chittaphon seemed to be absent.

“Is Ten coming?” he asked grittily as he took a seat beside Yuta, who’d lost the butter to Mark and was now pouting. 

“I didn’t invite him,” said Johnny, thoughtfully. “Why? Should I? I can shoot him a text right now, there’s plenty of food to go—”

“No!” Taeyong refused coldly. His eyebrows were knitted and he couldn’t look anyone in the face. “No. Don’t invite him. If he shows up, don’t let him in.”

Johnny and Yuta exchanged nervously confused glances. Mark paused in the middle of buttering his toast to look quizzically at Taeyong. Taeil laid a hand on his shoulder and asked, “Is everything all right? Did something happen?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” said Taeyong, harshly, in a way that deterred any further questions.

With time, normal conversation resumed. Mark began telling a story he’d heard on the news that he thought was ridiculous, Taeil was listening politely with on ear, and Johnny and Yuta were arguing over who deserved the last piece of toast more. Taeyong refused all offers of food, even though his stomach growled and felt concave and empty, but he had no energy to eat.

“I think the one who lost his virginity first should get the last slice of toast,” Johnny was saying, gesturing proudly to himself.

“Then maybe Taeyong should have it, since he’s the only one who hasn’t lost it! He’s still pure,” Yuta countered. “Besides, he hasn’t eaten anything yet.”

“Yeah, leave it to Yuta-chan to pity the virgin,” Johnny mocked. He then turned to Taeyong. “Are you even still a virgin? You disappeared for awhile last night. Get laid?”

Taeyong’s eyes narrowed and he clenched his fists. All he was hearing was ‘virgin, virgin, virgin,’ too inexperienced and vanilla, like he wasn’t a twenty-two-year-old man. “No. I didn’t. Can you stop asking? I’ll fucking tell you when I lose it.”

Everyone paused at the sudden roughness in Taeyong’s voice, and his rare use of profanity. Even Johnny was stunned. “I-I’m sorry, Taeyongie, I just thought . . . Is something wrong?” Johnny asked quietly.

“Nothing’s wrong!” Taeyong shouted. He felt ready to cry and explode at the same time, turning red from his own anger bubbling beneath his skin. “Maybe, for once, Youngho, you should keep to yourself instead of butting in and trying to help when you only ever make things worse!”

The whole room held their breath. Nobody had called Johnny ‘Youngho’ since Uni unless they were really upset with him, because that’s the name his mom uses when she yells at him. Johnny didn’t seem angry; only worry and befuddlement swam in his eyes.

“Geez, Taeyong,” Mark whispered, “he apologized—”

Taeyong slammed an open hand down on the table, knocking over an empty glass and making a loud ruckus. “Shut up! Just shut up Mark! You’re not even a part of this!”

Suddenly, Johnny was angry. His eyes narrowed and he advanced on Taeyong, grabbing him by the collar and looking him in the eyes. “Look, I get you’re going through something, and we want to help you, but pull your head out of your ass! Don’t yell at poor Mark. He didn’t do anything to you.”

Taeyong wrenched himself free and scrambled to his feet. Yuta was looking at him with an irked an disappointed expression. Mark hung his head, crestfallen. Taeil just seemed puzzled and concerned. 

“Why you gotta act like the adult all the time?” Taeyong snapped. His words left a bad taste in his mouth, venomous and regrettable. But he couldn’t stop. “You’re no older than any of us. Stop acting like you know everything. You don’t know anything! Stop pretending to be a saint. You’re just a liar who wants to watch the world crumble.”

Johnny scoffed incredulously. “What makes you say that?” He was bristling and flexing his arms, but keeping his cool. 

Taeyong rounded on him, fueled by his own hate fire. “You told be all about how much Ten likes me and encouraged me to make him fall for me. I get you maybe wanted me to succeed, but I never imagined you’d stoop so low as to lie about something as serious as that!” 

Johnny seemed calm, but there was a light behind his eyes and a tension in his muscles that said he was livid. “I didn’t tell you everything. Ten has confided in me about a lot of things regarding you. He texts me at night when he’s thinking about you.” He paused, pulled out his phone, and opened a text conversation with Chittaphon’s number. He made sure Taeyong could see as he scrolled, showing various late-night messages.

3월 20일, 2:23 오전  
태용이 장미를 좋아하니? (Does Taeyongie like roses?)

3월 22일, 1:47 오전  
난 무엇을 해야할지 몰라 (I don’t know what to do)  
난 태용을 좋아해 (I like Taeyong)

3월 26일, 3:12 오전  
난 태용이 대해 생각하기를 멈출 수 없어 (I can’t stop thinking about Taeyongie)

Struck, Taeyong said nothing. Johnny went on. “I’m a lot of things, Yongie,” he said, “but I am not a liar.”

Somehow, seeing the texts made him even angrier. Either Chittaphon is a complete liar or he gets a kick out of hurting those he likes. One of those types, who plays ‘hard-to-get’ a little too much, but expects to get what he wants in the end. Taeyong wouldn’t have it; enraged, he snatched Johnny’s phone and threw it to the—thankfully carpeted—ground.

“You are a liar,” he growled, “you told Ten you would keep all those things he said a secret, especially from me. You lied to him, and for what? You only ever make things worse. Keep your stupid mouth shut from now on!”

Mark was looking around listlessly. “What’s going on? What does this have to do with Ten-goon?”

Johnny was clenching and unclenching his fists, furious behind the eyes. “Watch what you say, Taeyong. How many times have I helped you? How much have I done for you? I tell you things and give you advice because I’m trying to help. If things don’t work out for you, that is not my fault.”

What fueled Taeyong’s rage the most was that Johnny was right. Taeyong knew very well he was wrong, but blinded by his own boiling emotion, he couldn’t stop himself.

“You never see your own faults,” Taeyong hissed menacingly, “not now, not ever. You ignore every one of your wrongdoings. You know it’s true. We all do. We all know it’s why you can’t keep a girlfr—”

A deafening crack sounded as a blow landed at the left side of Taeyong’s jaw, twisting it sideways and sending him stumbling back. When he opened his eyes, the room was wiggling and the world looked like it was underwater. Yuta and Taeil were on their feet, each holding one of Johnny’s arms as he struggled against them. Taeyong saw the bruises beginning to form on Johnny’s knuckles, and pieced together what had just happened.

“If you’re going through something, don’t take it out on us,” Johnny snarled. “I hope that knocked some sense into you.”

He tore free from Yuta and Taeil’s grasps and walked off, shutting himself in the conjoined bathroom. Everything fell deathly silent—Mark looked completely lost, Taeil was disturbed but sympathetic, and Yuta just seemed annoyed.

“You . . . You should go,” Yuta said solemnly. “I’ll talk to Johnny.”

Still reeling, and extra ticked that it had turned violent, Taeyong stood up stiffly and stalked out of the room. He heard footfalls behind him, but ignored them, heading to his own dorm.

“Taeyong! Wait!” Taeil called after him. Hand on the doorknob, he whirled around and faced Taeil with a gaze like rusted iron, which seemed to frighten him.

“I know everyone’s angry now,” Taeil continued gently, “but I’m still here. If you need to talk about anything—”

Taeyong narrowed his eyes, said, “I don’t, so keep your pesky nose out of it,” and slammed the door in Taeil’s face. His room felt cold and dreary with the rising sunlight and shadowed corners, curtains fluttering fitfully in the breeze. The calm atmosphere settled his raging fire, easing him into a state sane enough to realize what he’d done.

He backed against the door and slid down, arms hugging his legs and letting his face fall into his knees. His pants became wet with tears as he cried, shoulders shaking with sobs, jaw aching as he clenched his teeth to muffle his small sounds. Suddenly, he felt more alone than he’d ever been in his life.

He cried until his eyes stung and turned a blotchy, bulging red. He didn’t know how much time had passed—minutes? Hours? His stomach growled, but he had no appetite or desire to eat. He just wanted to waste away.

A soft knock sounded behind him, shaking the door against his back. He didn’t feel like talking to anyone, but curiosity willed him to stand and open the door—curiosity that immediately evaporated to anger when he saw who was standing there.

“Hi, Taeyongie,” said Chittaphon, cheerily at first, before Taeyong’s expression dawned on him. “Is something the matter? I heard yelling earlier.”

“There was a fight,” Taeyong said through gritted teeth. 

Chittaphon glanced at Taeyong’s jaw, and his eyes flashed with worry. He reached a hand forward to touch the blooming bruise. “What’s this? Are you all right? Who hit you?”

Taeyong slapped his hand away, staring at him with unmasked hatred. “Don’t touch me, Chittaphon.”

“Why are you speaking informally?” Chittaphon asked, though he was more concerned than offended. “And using my name? What’s going on? If this is about last night—”

Taeyong took a threatening step forward, bringing him within centimetres of Chittaphon’s face. “This is about you playing with my feelings. Leading me on, messing around, only to rudely reject me and treat me like some kind of accident in your life. Then, you turn around and act like my friend the next day! I’m not a toy. I have feelings. I’m not something you can play with until you get bored or uncomfortable.”

Chittaphon couldn’t meet his gaze. “I know, I’m sorry Taeyong, I—”

“And telling Johnny all about how you ‘like’ me and ‘can’t stop thinking’ about me,” Taeyong scoffed incredulously, “what a load of bullshit! You’re nothing but a lousy player. You don’t like me. You’re just lonely.”

Chittaphon was speechless. “Taeyong, please, let me—”

“No. I’m not letting you do anything. Now I understand why that ‘Soo Mi’ woman left you. She dodged a bullet,” Taeyong sneered, relishing in the crushed look that fell upon Chittaphon’s face. 

“Taeyong, that really hurts . . .” he mumbled deflatedly.

Taeyong stepped back. “Stay away from me, Chittaphon. Find a new editor. I’m done with your games.”

He slammed the door. He felt cold and rugged on the inside, rubbed raw of all feeling. Part of him regretted his words, while another part commended him for sticking to his guns. All pride fizzled, though, when he heard a choked sound come from the other side of the door—a single sob, unwillingly escaping from the chest of someone too broken to hold it in. Then, footsteps receded as Chittaphon retreated down the hall.

And then, Taeyong was really, truly, alone.

***

3월 29일, 1:47 오후   
태용이, 태일이야 (Taeyongie, it’s Taeil)  
어디야? (Where are you?)

3월 29일, 2:31 오후  
태용이 응답 해주세요 (Taeyongie please respond)  
모두가 널 찾고 있어 (Everyone is looking for you)

3월 29일, 2:55 오후  
어디야 어디야? (Where are you where are you?)  
제발 죽지 마세요 (Please don’t be dead)  
우린 널 사랑해~ (We love you)

3월 29일, 4:04 오후  
어서, 대답 해줘 (Come on, please reply)  
널 때려서 미안해 (I’m sorry for punching you)  
넌 가치가 있었어 . . . (You deserved it . . .)  
멍청이가되지 마 (Don’t be an asshole)

Taeyong scrolled through messages from Taeil, Yuta, Mark, and Johnny. He’d heard them calling for him, their voices carrying through the air as they searched. He was hiding in a small cropping of bushes amidst a circle of trees at the far reaches of the zen garden, completely invisible to those traversing the paths. Taeil and Mark had already passed by him a couple of times.

He could hear their voices grow more worried as time stretched on. They’d been searching for over an hour, after he’d gone some time without answering their messages. He felt bad—hiding himself away instead of owning up to what he did—but he couldn’t bring himself to face them just yet.

Suddenly, a sickening stench filled the air. It was gritty and thick, stinging his lungs and his eyes. He realized quickly it was tobacco smoke—but there was no smoking permitted on the property?

Risking revealing himself, he peeked out from the bushes and looked around. He spotted a man dressed in white clothes and an apron—a chef from the restaurant? He had a cigarette pinched between two fingers, and was glancing at his surroundings like he was guilty of something.

Their eyes met. The chef looked surprised to see Taeyong crouched in the undergrowth, and quickly snuffed out his cigarette, looking embarrassed.

“What are you doing there?” he asked, his Korean slightly awkward and laced with a Japanese accent. 

Taeyong rose carefully from his spot and approached the chef. “Hiding,” he said.

“Are you the one those people are looking for?” the chef asked, surprised. “Tae . . . Yong? There’s a bunch of people running around calling that name.”

“That’s me,” he said, shrugging. “I’m Lee Taeyong. Those are my friends. We . . . got in a fight earlier, so I ran away.”

“Oh. I’m Maruyama Yuudai. I work at the restaurant over there.” The chef gestured to the building in the near distance. “Speaking of, you won’t tell anyone you caught me smoking, right? I know it’s a bad habit . . . We’re not allowed cigarettes here, but I sneak one when I can. I get irritable without.”

Taeyong understood it wasn’t his place to judge. “I won’t tell anyone, so long as you don’t give away my hiding spot.”

“Deal,” said Yuudai, nodding his head. “Why don’t you want to be found? You said you were in a fight? Are they trying to hurt you?”

“No, it was more . . . the other way around,” Taeyong mumbled. “They’ve been trying to contact me for hours, but I just can’t face them. I won’t know what to say.”

Yuudai made an understanding expression, pursing his lips. “They’ve been trying to contact you? They sound very worried. I think they’ll forgive you, Taeyong-ssi. I say you should apologize and try to make up.”

“You think so?” Taeyong asked, worriedly, scratching his bicep. He could hear Taeil’s loud voice calling out from not far away.

“Sounds like someone’s coming,” Yuudai observed. “I should get back to work. I won’t give you away, but now’s your chance. See you around, maybe. Good luck.”

And with that, Yuudai carefully picked his way out of the undergrowth and disappeared into the restaurant. Taeil was coming down the path, his yellow cardigan strikingly contrasting the muted backdrop of the zen garden. He was biting his lip, looking left and right, as if desperately afraid that Taeyong had jumped off a mountain.

Taeyong wanted to move back into the brush, but his feet wouldn’t move, indecisive. Moments later, it was too late—Taeil had spotted him, and his face brightened up as his eyes welled with tears, and he rejoiced and went running off the path to catch Taeyong in a big hug.

“Where were you?!” Taeil scolded, stepping away. “We looked everywhere! Do you know how worried we were? Mark is having a panic attack in Johnny’s room because he thinks you died!”

Sheepishly, Taeyong ducked his head. “Sorry. I needed to be alone. I didn’t know . . . I didn’t think I could face you. Not after . . .”

“Come to Johnny’s room. Everyone’s there,” Taeil smiled gently. “They’ve forgiven you already. Just apologize and we’ll put this all behind us.”

Silently, they walked back to the dorms and into Johnny’s room. Mark was in a ball on the ground, tears streaming down his cheeks, breathing irregularly and sobbing uncontrollably. Yuta was at his side, trying to calm him down with soft touches and reassuring words, while Johnny just stared blankly at the far wall, lost in deep thought.

When they entered, Yuta looked up in surprise and quickly went to hug Taeyong. Johnny woke up from his trance and watched in nervous astonishment. Mark stopped quivering for a moment and then started crying even harder.

“I thought you were dead!” Mark screamed. “I thought you killed yourself! I thought we’d never see you again! Taeyongiiiieee!”

Johnny slowly approached, and there was an awkward pause. Then, he swung Taeyong in and wrapped him up in a hug, squeezing him gently. “Never go running off like that again. You face your problems like an adult.”

“Okay, Johnny,” Taeyong mumbled. “I’m sorry about everything I said. I shouldn’t have taken my anger out on everyone.”

Mark came sniveling up and joined the hug. Yuta and Taeil quickly squished themselves in, too, and it became a group hug.

“It’s in the past,” Johnny said with a smile. “Plus, that bruise taught you a lesson I reckon. From now on you won’t be a whiny little bitch, right?”

“Right,” Taeyong chuckled. “Shall we all go for drinks?”

Johnny’s eyes brightened. “I thought you’d never ask!”


	12. The Scent of Pencil Shavings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!!
> 
> Welcome to another exciting chapter! One quick note: Reminder that all the NCT members have been aged up, as they were supposed to have gone to Uni together (aside from Ten, who is older), and the Dream members are all 20-21. 
> 
> The ages of the members in this fic:
> 
> 24 years old:  
> Chittaphon/Ten 
> 
> 22 years old:  
> Taeil, Johnny, Taeyong, Yuta, Kun, Doyoung, Jaehyun, Sicheng/WinWin, Jungwoo, Lucas, and Mark 
> 
> 21 years old:  
> Renjun, Jeno, Haechan, and Jaemin 
> 
> 20 years old:  
> Chenle and Jisung 
> 
> If you want, be sure to add me on Snapchat and stay tuned to my Story, where I post sneak-peeks and chapter updates ;)!!
> 
> Snapchat: @sadiecheesecake 
> 
> And of course DM me anytime just to talk, I'm always open to answering questions or just having a conversation!
> 
> Enjoy this chapter ^~^!!

With a grunt, Taeyong threw his body on top of his suitcase, squashing it down, fighting desperately to zip it up. If all his stuff fit inside it on the way to the resort, it must be able to fit for the trip back—right? 

“Aaaah!” he let out a battle cry, finally pulling the zipper closed the rest of the way. With a triumphant nod, he threw the suitcase into the pile of other bags he’d brought.

“What’s going on? It sounds like you’re having sex in here,” Johnny poked his head in the doorway. “At least close the door, sheesh.”

Taeyong smirked playfully. “No, no sex here, I’m afraid. Just overfilled suitcases that won’t close. Are you finished packing?”

“Yep, already put my stuff in Ten’s car,” Johnny said. Then, his eyes filled with concern. “Are you . . . going to be okay for the ride back? You could ask to swap rides with Mark or Taeil, I’m sure they wouldn’t mind.”

Taeyong, still hungover, remembered what he could of the night before. He’d gotten blackout-drunk with Johnny and the rest, but before passing out completely, he’d spilled his guts about his fight with Chittaphon, about his crush, about their kiss and . . . other things. He sorely recalled drunkenly sobbing and banging his head against the table, and Taeil patting him on the back and whispering “There, there, Taeyongie.”

“No, I’ll ride in Ten’s car. It’ll be awkward but I’m not a pussy,” Taeyong said bravely. “I’ve dug my grave, now I shall lie in it. Besides, he’s the one in the wrong.”

Johnny winced. “Er, by the sounds of it you were pretty harsh. Even if he’s the one who’s wrong, you still . . .” Seeing Taeyong’s expression, he trailed off and cleared his throat. “You know what, nevermind. But this ride could be your chance to patch things up. Think about it?”

Taeyong smiled appreciatively and let Johnny help him with his bags. Together, they walked in calm silence to the parking lot, where Yuta and Chittaphon were waiting beside a white Bentley SUV, talking about their respective native languages and what it’s like being an immigrant in Korea.

Nonchalantly, Johnny called shotgun, flashing a wink at Taeyong, who smiled gratefully back—this way, Taeyong wouldn’t have to sit in the front with Chittaphon, but it also didn’t look like Taeyong was deliberately avoiding it. Once again, even though it had all been cleared up, Taeyong deeply regretted everything he’d said to his kind and considerate friend.

They piled into the SUV, Johnny in the passenger’s and Yuta and Taeyong in the back. Yuta put earbuds in and looked out the window as they pulled out of the lot, just behind the car Mark and Taeil were in.

The country roads were long and the ride was silent, wheat fields rolling out endlessly on either side, bright red barns far away in the distance, rocky cliffs stretching jagged and bleak toward the sky. Underneath the comfortable silence and the gentle tunes playing through the stereo was the constant, low rumble of the engine, somehow soothing in a way Taeyong couldn’t explain. Every once in a while, Chittaphon would divert his attention from the road and look at Taeyong in the rear-view mirror, a sadness in his eyes for a moment before he focused on driving again, steely and gripping the steering wheel.

When they reached the city again, Johnny was dropped off at his apartment first, and as they started on the way to Yuta’s flat, Taeyong realized he was going to be dropped off last.

As Yuta went to step out of the SUV, he flashed a worried look at Taeyong, and mouthed “Will you be okay?” Taeyong nodded reassuringly.

As Yuta dragged his suitcase up the walkway to his apartment, there was a pause. Chittaphon was looking at his lap, hand resting on the gear shift, breathing evenly. Taeyong gulped, feeling trapped—he didn’t know what to do if Chittaphon wanted to talk. There was nowhere he could go.

Then, Chittaphon exhaled roughly and put the car in Drive, pulling back onto the streets without a word. Taeyong let out a sigh of relief. They drove in the direction of Taeyong’s apartment in silence, the twinge in Chittaphon’s eyebrow the only thing giving away his deep thought.

When the Bentley pulled up in front of the complex, Chittaphon let out a rough sigh. Not wanting to hear whatever he was preparing himself to say, Taeyong undid his seatbelt and crawled out of the SUV.

“Taeyong, wait a minute,” Chittaphon said, lip quivering and eyes sad, turning around in his seat. “Can we just talk for—”

“Thanks for the ride,” Taeyong said flatly, opening the trunk and taking his stuff. Chittaphon exited the car and frustratedly took two bags from Taeyong’s struggling hands, carrying them to the door for him.

As Taeyong typed out the code for entry, Chittaphon set the bags down, his shoulders sagging and his head hanging. Taeyong opened the door and threw his bags into the complex, following after them without another look back.

The door didn’t close behind him. Chittaphon was standing there, holding it open, a look of hopeless determination on his face. “Taeyong,” he said, breathless and desperate, “please, talk to me. I don’t want a new editor, I . . . I want . . . Taeyong—”

“The neighbours won’t like you leaving the door open,” Taeyong said behind him, tone like ice. “Best close it. Letting all the cold air in.”

With that, he piled his stuff into the elevator and ascended to his floor. When he reached his suite, he looked out the window at the rain-slicked street, fat droplets falling from the sky. The Bentley was still parked there, running, lights on, and Chittaphon was in the front seat, head resting against the steering wheel, shoulders shaking with sobs. At last, he raised his head, tears streaking through his foundation, and began hitting the dashboard until he gave himself a bruise. Taeyong closed the curtains, not wanting to see any more.

***

“Welcome back!”

Taeyong accepted a big bear hug from Lucas, who already had a bottle of Soju in one hand. Mark and Taeil were socializing with Kun and Jaemin, who seemed enamored by whatever they were talking about. Jaehyun was letting Doyoung and Chenle in the door, and Yuta was looking around frantically.

“Have you seen Sicheng?” Yuta asked, trying to swallow the distress in his voice. “I can’t find him. He’s coming, right?”

“Relax, loverboy,” Jaehyun teased, giving Yuta a playful sock on the arm, “he’s on his way, just running late. I bet you missed him, huh?”

Yuta’s cheeks were pink. “Wh-What? Sh-Shut up! I didn’t miss him . . . that much . . .”

“I heard all your sappy, late-night phone conversations,” said Mark, with a look of annoyance, “you missed him a lot. A bit too much. I could even—unfortunately—hear the conversations you brought into the bathroom. Thin walls.”

Yuta’s blush evaporated, and he instead went white. “Wha . . . How much did you hear?”

“Stuff like ‘Are you touching yourself, Sichengie?’ and ‘If I was there right now I’d make you feel so good’ . . . My innocence is gone! Gone, you hear me? Gone!” Mark shouted. 

 

Yuta took Mark by the collar and dragged him off to the side, scolding him about ‘privacy’ and ‘sharing personal information.’ Jaehyun shook his head incredulously and Taeyong decided best to ignore them.

“Anyway . . .” Taeyong began, turning to Jaehyun. “Thanks for throwing this party. It’s off to an . . . interesting start, but it’s very thoughtful of you.”

Jaehyun smiled. “No problem. Everyone’s missed you guys, and we’re dying to hear about your all-expense-paid trip, lucky bastards . . . I wasn’t sure about inviting Yuta and Sicheng, I thought they’d want some alone time, but I felt bad excluding them. I have a guest room, after all.”

“If they go in the guest room, leave them be,” Taeyong advised. “Taeil learned that the hard way at Johnny’s party.”

The doorbell rang, and Jaehyun excused himself to answer. Jisung entered cautiously with Sicheng trailing behind, looking around apprehensively for someone in particular. Yuta came running from the other side of the room, throwing himself around Sicheng so ferociously that both of them toppled over into a heap.

“Whoa! Walk it off, walk it off,” Jaehyun said, helping them both up. Taeyong watched how they clung to each other so openly with admiration and a twinge of jealousy—now that, apparently, everyone knew about Yuta and Sicheng’s relationship, they didn’t have to hide their feelings for each other.

The party progressed with no further incident. Taeyong described the ‘lovely’ onsens and ‘gorgeous’ mountains to envious ears, drinking moderate amounts of Soju and beer. Once he’d worked up a generous buzz, he began talking about his spa treatment and the delicious food. Eventually, people grew tired of listening to him brag and left to their own affairs.

Then, Johnny—not noticeably drunk despite the number of beers he’d already downed—approached him, cracking open a new can with a satisfying ‘pop!’ He leaned over the counter in the kitchen and sipped leisurely. “So, Yongie,” he began, words only partially slurred, “now’s a good chance to tell everyone, y’know, your secret? Everyone’s cool about Yuta and Sicheng, so I doubt anyone will care.”

Taeyong, head swimming with alcohol, considered. “That’s a good idea,” he said, nodding fervently. “I’ll do that right now.” He grabbed a chair and positioned it at a central position in the living space, then stood on top and tapped two empty Soju bottles together, getting everyone’s attention.

“Everyone,” he started, feeling woozy, trying not to tumble off the chair, “I have an announcement. It’s no big deal but since some people here know, I think it’s fair that I tell everyone, just for the record. Guys, I’m gay. I like men. So . . . yeah. Gay. That is all.”

Everyone cheered enthusiastically and he took a dramatic bow. Lucas came over and clapped him on the back encouragingly. “Nice going, man. Glad you’re finally out. Hey, any luck with that guy you were trying to seduce?” 

Taeyong tensed. “I . . . don’t really want to talk about it. Thanks for your and Jaehyun’s advice that time, though. It was helpful, it just . . . didn’t end up working out.”

Lucas looked sympathetic. “Sorry to hear that. Have more Soju, that’ll help! You don’t have work tomorrow, right?”

Taeyong shook his head and popped open another bottle, stomaching half in one gulp. Lucas acknowledged his skill with a respectful salute.

As the night dragged on and the skies outside got darker, the energy quieted down and the seats became much more populated. Taeyong, no longer able to see straight, sat at the dining table and sipped absentmindedly from a can. Johnny came around and confiscated the alcohol, recycling the can in a garbage bag filled with other empty drink containers.

Jaemin and Renjun were asleep on Doyoung, who was stretched out on the couch, scrolling through his phone with tired eyes. Jaehyun, Taeil, and Kun were gathered around the TV, having a conversation and ignoring the washed-out KBS programme that was left playing. Yuta and Sicheng were nowhere to be seen, but the guest room door was firmly shut. Jisung and Chenle were in the bathroom, Jisung seated on the countertop and Chenle trying to fix his makeup, which had gotten smudged.

Taeyong suddenly felt very sad. He let his head fall against the table, taking out his phone and turning down the brightness when the glare stung his eyes. Unable to stop himself, he typed out a message and sent it.

4월 1일, 12:47 오전  
텐형 미안해요 (Ten-hyung I’m sorry)

Tears fell from his eyes as his reality dawned on him. He remembered Chittaphon crying on the other side of the door, remembered his sad eyes in the rear-view mirror, remembered his desperate words the day before and how he’d sobbed endlessly in his car, by himself, and Taeyong wondered if it was too late.

Seconds turned into minutes as time stretched on, no response no matter how many times Taeyong checked. He began to cry harder, forgetting where he was, losing himself to unbearable sadness. 

“Taeyong, are you okay?”

He looked up. There were many worried looks trained his way, but only Taeil had come over, now sitting across from him at the table. Taeyong’s heart hurt, and he took the hand that Taeil reached out to him and held onto it for dear life, too choked to speak.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Taeil murmured gently, looking at Taeyong’s phone which was opened to the texts, “I understand. Let it all out. It’ll be okay.”

Through the unstoppable monsoon of tears, Taeyong felt helplessly lost, unable to process his thoughts into a coherent tangible idea. He wasn’t even sure what saddened him the most—Chittaphon’s unwillingness to fall in love, the fight they had, the mean things he’d said, or the possibility of losing Chittaphon entirely, as a business partner and friend?

But then, a vibration swam across the tabletop. There was a message.

4월 1일, 1:11 오전   
너 취 했니? (Are you drunk?)

Sniffling, Taeyong read the message over a few times, unsure what to reply. The obvious answer was yes, but was there an ulterior meaning to Chittaphon’s question? Was he trying to avoid the subject at hand?

4월 1일, 1:12 오전  
네, 저는 너무 취해있어요 (Yes, I’m very drunk)

The screen was blurry through his watery eyes. Taeil was gently rubbing his thumb along Taeyong’s hand, not speaking, just being there for support with a sympathetic look in his eyes.

4월 1일, 1:14 오전  
나도 (Me too)  
난 잊고 술 마시고 있었어 (I was drinking to forget)  
하지만 . . . 너 내가 술에 취해있을 때 널 더 생각해 (But . . . I think about you more when I’m drunk)

The lurch in Taeyong’s heart was so strong he thought for sure he’d suffer cardiovascular system failure. The tears kept coming, dropping onto his screen like rainfall. By then, everyone in the room had noticed the scene, like from a TV drama, and was watching it unfold with bated breath. 

4월 1일, 1:17 오전  
하지 마 . . . (Stop . . .)  
미안해요 (I’m sorry)  
텐형 정말 미안해요 (Ten-hyung I’m so sorry)

“What’s going on?” Johnny asked softly,sitting beside Taeyong and squeezing his shoulder. Taeil shrugged and gripped Taeyong’s hand tighter. Johnny saw the texts and kept quiet.

4월 1일, 1:20 오전  
아냐 . . . (No . . .)  
그것은 . . . 내 잘못이야 (This . . . is my fault)  
우리가 얘기해야 해 (We need to talk)  
냉정한 (Sober)

“What if this is it?” Taeyong mumbled, sniffling uncontrollably. “What if he says he never wants to see me again? Did I fuck it up?”

“I don’t think he’ll do that,” Taeil shook his head slowly. “I think he’d be happy if you’re willing to work things out. He doesn’t want to lose you either, I feel.”

4월 1일, 1:21 오전  
네 (Yes)  
내일 (Tomorrow)  
달콤 커피에 (At Dal.Komm Coffee)  
1:30 오후 (1:30 P.M.)

Johnny gave him a reassuring pat. “Good choice, Taeyong,” he said, “try to relax, get some sleep. It’ll be okay. I’ll get you some water.”

Johnny stepped into the kitchen and poured a glass. Taeil gently helped Taeyong stand and insisted he drink the water. Jaehyun approached and gingerly pressed tissues to Taeyong’s eyes. Then, everyone in the room lined up to give him a hug—fifteen, to be exact, the entire group minus Yuta and Sicheng, who were still strangely absent.

Taeyong wasn’t sure when he’d fallen asleep, but he woke up with a start the following morning with his face pressed into a pillow on the couch and a blanket splayed over him. Mark was curled up beside him, snoozing soundly; Doyoung, Jaehyun, Jaemin, Taeil, and Lucas were passed out around the dining table; Chenle, Jisung, Kun, and Renjun were crammed on one armchair, and Yuta and Sicheng were still nowhere to be seen.

Sitting up—slowly so to not wake Mark, who stirred before settling once more—he looked around the room. Yellow light pooled on the floor underneath the sliding glass doors, which were open slightly, letting cool afternoon breeze push against the curtains. Jeno was outside on the balcony, looking out over the city, a steaming mug in his hand. Haechan and Jungwoo were piled together in the corner of the room, soundly asleep despite the unfinished game of Connect-4 in front of them.

“Need a ride, sleepy head?” Johnny asked, leaning over the back of the couch. “It’s 1:05, where are you meeting Ten-ssi?”

Taeyong sprung to his feet. “It’s what—! Why did you let me sleep in this late?! I’m meeting him in Hongdae!”

Johnny’s eyes widened. “Hongdae? Why Hongdae?”

“It’s . . . a long story. We’re meeting at a coffee place called ‘Dal.Komm.’ We have a bit of history there, I guess?” Taeyong shrugged. “I needed a shower first, and I don’t expect you to drive me all the way to Hongdae . . . What am I going to do?”

Johnny sighed deeply. “It’s my fault, I let you sleep, so I’ll drive you. It’ll take about fifteen minutes by car . . . If you shower fast, we should be able to make it on time. I’ll ask Jaehyun if he has any clean clothes you can borrow.”

Taeyong rushed to the bathroom, locked the door, and jumped for a five-minute shower. He cleaned his body with soap and scrubbed his hair—sans shampoo and conditioner—until he felt clean, then he wrapped a towel around his midsection. As soon as he turned the water off, a knock sounded at the door.

“You decent? I have some clothes from Jaehyun for you,” Johnny’s voice sounded. Taeyong gave the OK and the door opened a crack, just wide enough for Johnny to pass a pile of folded clothes for Taeyong to take.

He got changed quickly. The jeans were a little bit long, so he rolled them up, but he left the sleeves of the sweater because he thought he looked cute in an oversized hoodie. 

Quickly, he collected his stuff and tumbled out the door, saying goodbye to the sleeping apartment and making his way to Johnny’s Civic, which was already running. They were off as soon as he was belted in, and thanks to Johnny’s fast driving, they made it to Hongdae on time—barely.

“Good luck,” Johnny said, a reassuring look in his eyes. Taeyong thanked him and climbed out of the car, walking to the coffee shop with haste.

When he finally made it, he was sweating and panting and ten minutes late. Chittaphon was seated in the same place as before, by the window, and for the first time ever he looked in worse straits than Taeyong—old, unwashed jeans, a University sweater that must’ve been dug up from the bottom of a drawer, dirty sneakers, a ball cap, and sunglasses. He seemed pale, tired, and skinnier than usual. When he saw Taeyong, he didn’t react or make a sound, just watched him silently as he approached and sat down.

“Sober?” he asked calmly.

“Mostly,” said Taeyong.

“Me too,” Chittaphon muttered, as he took out a flask and poured something undeniably alcoholic into his . . . coffee? “Where do I start?”

“You don’t like coffee,” Taeyong pointed out, as Chittaphon took a sip from his mug and made a sour face.

“No, I don’t,” Chittaphon huffed, drinking more from the mug, “but I’ll fall asleep if I don’t drink it. Besides, tea doesn’t really mix well with Bailey’s.”

Taeyong scrunched up his nose—Bailey’s and coffee? At one forty-five in the afternoon? “How have you been?”

Chittaphon scoffed. “Well, less than great. I haven’t slept in—what is it now?—seventy-two hours, give or take, I’ve been on an all-liquid diet just as long, I haven’t talked to anyone but my cat, I haven’t bathed, I haven’t gotten any work done, and this is the first time I’ve been out of bed since I got home after dropping you off. Other than all that, I’m just peachy.”

“Are you trying to make me feel bad?” Taeyong asked, eyes narrowed and fists clenched together under the table.

Chittaphon let out a big sigh. “No, Taeyong, I don’t mean to guilt-trip you. It’s just the truth. You messed me up, big time. That stuff you said about Soomi . . . it haunts me.”

“I’m sorry,” Taeyong said earnestly, “I took it too far. I shouldn’t have said that. But it’s still true that you were playing around with my feelings, and I was mad about that. I still am.”

Angrily, Chittaphon snapped, “I wasn’t—!” Then, he stopped, steeled himself, and relaxed. “I didn’t mean to mess with you. That was never my intention. I’m kicking myself because it’s my fault you’re hurt and I’m a massive idiot. I really meant . . . When I said to Johnny that I like you, I meant it. You drive me up the wall, and that’s the God’s-honest truth.”

“You make no sense!” Taeyong slammed his open hand on the table, exasperated and frustrated beyond belief. “You say you’re crazy about me but then you turn around and say kissing me was a mistake! Make up your mind!”

“I’m trying to!” Chittaphon shouted back, genuine desperation in his gaze. “Taeyong, I’m a coward. Don’t you get it? That woman, she . . . she ruined my trust and broke my heart. I’m afraid of love. I want to kiss you and touch you and be with you so badly, but I can’t. There’s an inhibition that I can’t bypass, telling me I’ll only end up in pieces again.”

Taeyong rolled his head back on his shoulders. “You . . . I’m not Soomi, you know that? I’m Lee Taeyong. I wouldn’t hurt you like she—”

“That doesn’t matter!” Chittaphon shouted even louder, attracting attention from other patrons. “Anything can happen. Love is fleeting. For me, infatuation only ever leads to heartbreak. And I . . . I can’t go through it again. One more time and, well . . . Taeyong, I wouldn’t survive. It would kill me.”

Taeyong couldn’t hold back a snarky tone. “That’s ridiculous,” he spat.

“Really,” Chittaphon insisted. “Last time . . . When Soomi left, I . . . I don’t deal with things well, Taeyong. Maybe that’s obvious—look at me now. I dated Soomi for over two years. When she left . . . it really broke me. I didn’t eat, didn’t sleep, just laid in bed for days, wasting away. None of my friends could save me. My writing came to a complete halt. I became so overwhelmed with unmet appointments and overdue bills that I just drowned in it. After about two, three, months of that, I . . . I swallowed a bunch of pills. A whole bottle.”

Chittaphon choked up for a moment at the memory, looking like he might throw up. Taeyong suddenly felt awful, a dreaded feeling pooling in his stomach at the thought . . . Chittaphon had tried to kill himself.

“I woke up at the hospital,” he went on, “surrounded by my family. They were so worried about me that they caught the first plane to Korea as soon as they heard the news. It was a shock to them, they thought I was happy. I was only saved because a debt collector came to my house and found me on the floor . . . My mother stayed in Korea for a while after that and I was put through a rehabilitation program, only for a couple weeks to get me back on my feet. I was deemed a danger to myself, Taeyong. Do you understand now? I can’t go through something like that again—I wouldn’t live through it. I have to let you go.”

Taeyong couldn’t argue. He hated the thought of being ‘let go,’ but Chittaphon seemed serious, and there was nothing that would change his mind. “I get it. Nobody should have to experience that.”

“However,” Chittaphon said, downing the last bit of his Bailey’s coffee, “you are a fine editor, and a fast friend. I don’t want to have to cut you off entirely unless absolutely necessary. Do you think we could still work together professionally? I’ll get over you soon enough, I promise. Will you work with me?”

Taeyong’s heart pounded. He could already see everything unfolding in the future, no matter what deal would be made here. “Yes, I suppose so. I’m already over you anyway.”

“Right. Good then,” Chittaphon nodded curtly, shaking off his disbelief, “let’s shake on it. From now on, we are business partners and acquaintances. If I try to kiss you, push me away. Hit me, slap me, I don’t care, just don’t let me do it. Shake?”

Taeyong shook Chittaphon’s hand. “I won’t let you. Promise.”

“Great! Now that that’s over with . . .” There was a sudden energy in Chittaphon’s body that wasn’t there before. Taeyong found his head spinning at how quickly the air between them had changed. “There’s a job that the director has me doing tomorrow, and I’d like you to accompany me.”

Taeyong wondered—a job? What could the director possibly want with an author? “What’s the job?”

“I’m visiting a high school classroom tomorrow,” said Chittaphon, proudly. “It’s a Korean language class, and I’m going to talk about literature and books and being a writer . . . You know, the works. You could come and talk about your job as my editor, which is an extremely important—and often overlooked—role in the writing-publishing cycle.”

Despite the possibility of awkwardness—spending a whole day with Chittaphon—the ‘job’ did sound like fun, and a Hell of a lot more interesting than work at the firm. “Uh, sure, I could do that,” said Taeyong, and Chittaphon clapped his hands.

“Good! Now I won’t be lonely.”

***

4월 2일, 9:01 오전  
나 밖이야 (I’m outside)

Taeyong was dressed in semi-formal attire—sleek, slim-fit dark jeans, a patterned button-up, clean white canvas shoes, and a black blazer—checking himself in the mirror for any final fix-ups when he got the text. The night before, Chittaphon had apparently spoken to the director, and Taeyong had received an e-mail giving him the ‘OK’ to tag along with Chittaphon to the high school. Now, the author was parked outside in his Bentley, awaiting Taeyong’s arrival.

“Looking sharp,” Chittaphon said. He seemed much fresher than the day before—newly showered, all soapy smells, with a face of makeup and his hair done properly. He had on a tweed suit, sans tie, and grey shirt with the top button undone, showing his collarbone. Taeyong thought he could smell cologne.

They drove to a chic-looking high school at the far end of Gangnam, parked out front, and were directed by the principal to the classroom. It wasn’t time to go in yet, so they waited idly outside, unsure what to say in terms of conversation. Taeyong excused himself to use the bathroom.

The halls were long and the ceilings high, well-architectured and regally designed. This was obviously only a place for rich kids, Seoul’s future elite, and if it weren’t for the directory posted on the wall, Taeyong would’ve found himself lost.

On his way back from the—overly fancy—lavatory, the halls seemed emptier, the echo of his footsteps seemed to resonate more, and he had the distinct feeling he was being watched. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he walked faster.

“No way!” a voice suddenly called through the haunting silence. “Lee Taeyong? Is that you?”

Spinning around on the balls of his feet, Taeyong laid eyes upon a face from the past—familiar, gorgeous, a face he thought he’d never see again. He was wearing a white dress shirt, rolled up to his elbows, and suit pants, with expensive leather Oxfords and reading glasses. As he approached, he ran a hand through his soft hair, and flashed Taeyong a blinding smile.

“Holy shit, Lee Taeyong,” he said, coming to a stop and leaning back on his heels. “It really is you. How’s it going, old friend?”

With a gulp and a lurch of his heart, he mumbled, “C-C-Cai . . . Cai Xukun?”


	13. The Scent of Envious Flame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally here!!
> 
> Sorry for the delay, I've been quite busy as of late. I saw some people were getting worried for my health and safety in the comments..... I'm glad you guys care about me, but relax, I'm just really lazy and procrastinate a lot x)
> 
> I should add that some of you (those who really like Cai Xukun irl) may be displeased with his character in this chapter. I realize that the real Cai Xukun is a sweet, humble little baby who's super nice and wouldn't hurt anyone. However, after the last chapters, many people seemed to enjoy the prospect of TaeyongxXukun a bit too much.... You seem to forget this is a →TAETEN← fanfiction xD 
> 
> Now, there's been 4 types of cars described in this story.... Time for a pop quiz to see who's been paying attention!!
> 
> What kind of car....  
> Does JOHNNY own?  
> Does TEN own?  
> Does TAEYONG own?  
> Does XUKUN own?  
> (+Bonus points for colour and/or model!)
> 
> Anyway, enjoy this chapter, sorry again for the wait! ^~^

“This is crazy!” said Xukun, with a disbelieving chuckle. “Lee Taeyong, in the flesh and blood. How are you?”

Taeyong’s thoughts spun wildly inside his skull. He didn’t believe what he was seeing with his very own eyes—Cai Xukun, the hottest international student at his high school, born and raised in China, had somehow found himself at a prestigious Korean private school. Yet, he was certainly far too old to be attending as a student.

“I-I’m good,” Taeyong sputtered. “What are you doing here? I thought you went back to China after high school!”

Age certainly hadn’t stolen any of Xukun’s looks—if anything, age enhanced them. He was as handsome as ever, all shiny eyes and perfect skin, hair that could rival that of actresses in Pantene commercials. He looked expensive and sharp, suit beautifully fitted, likely tailor-made. There was a casual air to him, his shoulders lax and his face neutral, but the glitter in his eyes gave away his flirtatious nature.

“I did, for a while,” Xukun said, pondering. “I was chasing the fruitless dream of taking over my dad’s company back in Zhejiang, so I interned there for a while alongside university. I quickly realized despite being the CEO’s son, I would have to climb the corporate ladder like everyone else, and I just didn’t want to do that. So, I moved back to Korea to pursue a different path: Teaching Mandarin to young learners. It’s a growing demand, you know.”

Taeyong nodded slowly. “So, you’re a teacher here?”

“No, not yet,” Xukun sighed, “long way to go, still. I’m currently doing ‘field training,’ that is, observing classes and taking my turn teaching every once in a while. My supervisor is the current Mandarin teacher here, Ms. Cao.”

“That’s amazing,” Taeyong smiled encouragingly. “And I must say, your Korean has definitely improved. I remember it being difficult to communicate before, but now your diction is flawless. I’m impressed.”

Xukun gave a flattered smirk. “Well, it’s been a long journey. You’ve changed, too. In high school you were just this little nerd who wore hoodies and baggy jeans, but you seem to have developed a sense of style. Nicely done.”

Taeyong’s eyebrow twitched as he felt he was being talked down to. He couldn’t help feeling rubbed the wrong way—so what his dad didn’t own a company? So what he was less-than-fashionable in his teen years? “I’ve accomplished more than that,” he mumbled defensively.

“Of course,” Xukun agreed quickly, ever the gentleman. “You’re Lee Taeyong. You were always so smart, if I remember correctly. So, what are you up to now? And what brings you to this school?”

As he opened his mouth to respond, the sound of expensive shoes clacking on the tile floors, echoing through the halls, approached them. “Taeyong? What’s the holdup? We have to go in soon.”

Chittaphon came and stood beside Taeyong. The author gave Xukun an up-and-down look, displeasure in his gaze but hidden well in his posture. “Who’s this?” he asked.

“Cai Xukun, student teacher. Pleased to meet you,” he replied coolly, unfazed, reaching out a hand. “I’m an old friend of Taeyong’s.”

Chittaphon looked at the outstretched hand and hesitated, almost like a standoff. Finally, he shook it briskly. “I haven’t heard of you,” he said, voice level, though he seemed prickly like a less-than-amused hedgehog. Taeyong wondered.

“Taeyong hasn’t mentioned me?” Xukun asked, feigning surprise. 

“Not once,” Chittaphon iterated, then turned his shoulder to Xukun and regarded Taeyong fully. His eyes went soft. “So, Taeyong-ah, shall we go?”

Taeyong shivered. ‘Taeyong-ah’? What’s that all about? He looked at Xukun, who was glancing back-and-forth between the two of them, eyes squinted. There was a bristling energy between Xukun and Chittaphon, crackling like thunder. They were like two alpha wolves protecting their territory. 

“Taeyong . . . ‘ah’?” Xukun inquired, suppressing confusion. “Oh, I didn’t realize you had a boyfriend. Naturally.”

Taeyong sputtered, stepping back an inch, looking at Chittaphon nervously. However, the unsaid words behind the author’s gaze were not ones of alarm, but of suave affirmation, like he was silently agreeing.

“Oh, um, no, he’s not my boyfriend,” Taeyong denied shyly, waving his hands. “I work at a publishing firm, and he’s the famous author Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul. You must have heard of him? I’m his editor.”

Xukun breathed in knowingly. “Ah! I thought I recognized him,” he said proudly. There was a slyness in his expression, as though he were pleased. “That must be why you’re here. There’s some kind of presentation for the Korean language class, yeah?”

“That’s right,” Chittaphon nodded stiffly, “and it’s about to begin, so Taeyong-ah and I should go. It was . . . nice . . . meeting you.”

Xukun straightened authoritatively and retreated. “I see. First, Taeyong, shoot me your number. Now that I’m staying in Korea full-time, we should see each other more. We have a lot of catching up to do.”

“R-Right, yeah.” Taeyong felt himself cracking beneath the sudden strange pressure. As he wrote his number on Xukun’s wrist with Sharpie, he could feel Chittaphon’s eyes boring into him, burning a hole through his skull.

They waved goodbye and walked in opposite directions down the hall. Chittaphon was sizzling, sticking closer to Taeyong’s side than normal. His shoulders were set and his posture stiff, his eyes staring straight ahead until Xukun had disappeared from the hall. Then, he seemed to snap out of it, turning his head toward Taeyong and giving him an accusatory look.

“He’s . . . very attractive,” Chittaphon murmured, an edge to his tone.

Taeyong hummed, biting his lip. “Ah . . . yeah, he is.”

Chittaphon stopped outside the classroom and gave Taeyong a suspicious, sideways glance. “He thought I was your boyfriend. That means he knows you’re gay.”

Taeyong gulped thickly, feeling his brow break a sweat. He wasn’t entirely sure what Chittaphon was getting at, nor why he was so agitated, but whatever it was, it wasn’t good. “Yeah . . . he knows . . .”

“You told me I was the first person you ever told,” Chittaphon lashed, tone biting. If he had claws, they would be unsheathed. “Even before Johnny and Yuta and the others, you told me first. I was the first who knew. Except . . .”

Suddenly, Taeyong knew where this was going. Chittaphon was the first person he’d ever formally told, in words, but naturally his previous ‘almost-boyfriends’ would know his preference. He’d even said so, on that night in the car, when he’d told Chittaphon he was gay—a moment that seemed so far away now.

“Your high school flames would know,” Chittaphon said, voice low. Taeyong would’ve liked it better if he’d yelled—this volume was icy and piercing, like a knife cutting through soft butter. “You never told them you’re gay because you didn’t have to. They were kissing you. They knew. Me, you told, in words, and I was the first, because at that point I had not kissed you.”

“That’s true,” Taeyong mumbled, unsure what else to do. Should he lie? Pretend he’d been in contact with Xukun recently and told him? That they’d found each other on Facebook?

But there was no point—Chittaphon misses nothing. Especially in his current mood, there was no convincing him, he’d see through a lie as if it were clear spring water. However, he did not press for any more information. He merely looked Taeyong up and down and turned toward the classroom.

“Interesting,” he said over his shoulder as he walked. The room was full of kids in uniform, seated obediently at their desks, watching the professor at the front. The presentation passed with no incident, a big, white smile plastered across Chittaphon’s face, despite the orange embers burning behind his eyes that only Taeyong could see. 

***

“Hey, Taeyong? Can I talk to you a second?” 

A night had come and gone. Taeyong had not spoken to Xukun since they’d met, nor had Chittaphon said a word to him since the presentation. Now, they were all seated around the table in the workroom, each working on his own project. Yuta had been discussing Japanese culture with Chittaphon for his upcoming novel, but had taken a break from that and swiveled his chair toward Taeyong, asking to speak with him.

“Sure, what’s up?” he asked, turning halfway toward Yuta. They hadn’t spoken to each other since Jaehyun’s party. Taeyong was mildly aware of Chittaphon’s eyes darting toward them, and he knew his and Yuta’s were not the only ears listening.

“I heard about what happened at Jaehyun’s the other night,” Yuta began, his eyes apologetic. “You were . . . I was told you were pretty messed up. Are you okay? I’m really sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

Taeyong smiled, noticing Chittaphon perk up at the information. The author seemed upset about something, but Taeyong didn’t dwell on it. “That’s okay, Yuta. I’m fine, it’s all been . . . fixed, well enough I guess. You were with Sicheng, right? I know you missed him.”

Yuta looked thankful at Taeyong’s understanding. “Yeah. We stuck around with everyone for a while but I couldn’t stand it for long. I needed to feel him, kiss him, cuddle him . . . So we went to the guest room. We didn’t plan on spending the whole night in there, but well . . . I might’ve missed him more than I thought.”

Taeyong chuckled good-naturedly. “You lovebug,” he said affectionately, cuffing Yuta gently over the head. “On another note, guess what! I’ve been itching to tell you—you’ll never guess who I ran into yesterday!”

Yuta’s eyebrows jumped up. “Oh? You’ve intrigued me! Who did you meet?”

“Xukun! The Chinese student from my high school days whom I told you about!” Taeyong wriggled with excitement. His eyes widened dreamily as he went on, “He’s in training to become a Mandarin teacher here in Korea. He’s currently living in Seoul! Can you believe that?”

Yuta almost leapt out of his seat. “No way! That’s amazing! Right when you need him, too, with Johnny’s bet and all,” he said, with a wink. “This is great! Taeyong, do you realize what this means? You have a second chance!”

Before he could reply, Chittaphon turned in his chair, acting like he’d just tuned in. “A second chance at what?” he asked, trying to sound like he wasn’t all that interested.

Yuta turned to face the author giddily. “Love!” he blurted out. “Xukun is an old flame of Taeyong’s. They almost dated in high school, but Xukun went back to China before Taeyong got his chance to really solidify their relationship. But now, with Xukun back in Seoul, there’s an opportunity to rekindle what there almost was!”

Taeyong’s soul lurched at Yuta revealing everything all at once, but he had no time to be angry about it—the damage was done. Chittaphon seemed to rear, like a horse on its hind legs, and his eyes flashed with a new emotion. His aura changed. Taeyong had never seen him so unmasked, so overtly hot-blooded.

Then, like dust in the wind, it was gone. Chittaphon’s defenses went up and he was a clean slate, controlled and expressionless. Yuta was still bouncing, appearing to have seen nothing in the author’s reaction. 

“That’s good,” said Chittaphon, through gritted teeth, like he was forcing out every word. “I wish you luck, Taeyongie.”

Finally, Yuta seemed to sense that something was wrong. He reined himself in and saw the almost-concealed look in Chittaphon’s eyes, the green ghost of envy clutching his shoulders, and something clicked.

“Er . . . Why don’t we get back to your research?” Yuta suggested, turning Chittaphon off the subject. Reluctantly, the author complied, opening his book to a new page of notes and beginning to explain them.

Taeyong got up, frightened by the tension even after it had lifted, and began to head for the door. He muttered something about needing the restroom when Johnny asked where he was going, and he headed into the hallway beyond. He heard Chittaphon excuse himself from Yuta and his chair scrape across the floor as he stood, and instinctively Taeyong hastened his pace.

When he looked over his shoulder, Chittaphon was right behind him, making it obvious he was being followed. Like a startled deer, Taeyong broke into a jog and darted into the bathroom, clambering into a stall just as Chittaphon’s hand stopped the door from closing.

“Wait— I have to use the bathroom—!” Taeyong struggled, trying to slam the stall door. Chittaphon wouldn’t budge, and he was surprisingly strong.

“Hold it,” he said icily, words like shards of glass. Taeyong knew it was a battle lost, and let go of the door, stepping out of the stall with his head down and his shoulders bunched.

When he looked up, Taeyong did not see Chittaphon standing there. Instead, there was a bull in full heat before him, riled on testosterone and rage, muscles bunched and hoof scraping the ground beneath, ready to charge. Its head was down, baring its pointy horns, ready to pierce the flesh of whatever stood in its way.

“Wh-Why are you so angry?” Taeyong asked, shuddering at the fiery eyes and hunched shoulders and clasped fists.

“I’m not angry!” Chittaphon yelled, hitting the stall door so it flung open and smacked against the wall. One of their colleagues—a longtime worker by the name of Max—walked in, saw the scene, and slowly backed out.

Taeyong cowered slightly and lowered his voice. “Please don’t yell,” he squeaked, “you seem angry. Are you going to hurt me?”

Something else, something softer, crossed the look of carnage in Chittaphon’s eyes, dissolving it. He suddenly relaxed, gaze gentle, and sighed heavily.

“I’m sorry. I would never hurt you, Taeyong,” he said sincerely, stepping back as the stall door swung closed again. “I’m not . . . angry. I’m not. This is stupid—”

Taeyong was concerned. “What’s wrong? You’ve been upset since yesterday. Is it about Xukun?”

Chittaphon’s lip twitched, but he forced himself to remain indifferent. “A little. Do you like him? Does he like you? Are you going to have sex with him?”

It was Taeyong’s turn to be mad. He squared his shoulders defensively and looked evenly at Chittaphon. “So what if I do? He’s attractive, he has money, and maybe he does like me. He used to, that’s for sure. I drove him crazy, you know that? He was obsessed over me.”

Taeyong wasn’t sure he believed that—yes, they got along well, and yes, Xukun would get excited in Taeyong’s presence, but ‘obsessed’ is a little strong. None of that mattered, though, when Chittaphon’s jaw set, and for once the author had nothing to say. 

Taeyong pressed further. “I bet he still likes me. Maybe we will have sex, and he’ll have my virginity. But what do you care? You’ve made it strikingly clear you have no interest in all that. To you, I’m just your editor. To him, I might mean something.”

Chittaphon was speechless, struck, mouth agape for a long moment. Then, he straightened, suddenly looking cracked. “I know I let you go. I know I have no right to— But I’m jealous, Taeyong. I want you to move on and be happy, I do, but I . . . It burns me that you would . . . with that narcissistic—!”

Taeyong stomped his foot. “He’s uppity, but he’s nice. And you’re right, you can’t police my actions. I’m not yours.”

Chittaphon looked torn in two, a foot on both sides, crestfallen and in shambles. The bull was gone, replaced with a porcelain doll who’d shattered and then been pieced poorly back together, every crack visible and the glue barely dried. He said nothing.

Just then, Taeyong got a text. He looked away from the author to check his phone.

4월 3일, 3:49 오후  
배고픈? (Hungry?)  
저녁 먹으러 가고 싶니? (Want to go for dinner?)  
오늘 밤 ♡ (Tonight ♡)

“Who’s that?” Chittaphon asked, a shake in his voice as if he could guess.

“Xukun,” Taeyong said venomously, proud at the look of despair that befell Chittaphon’s face. “We’re going for dinner”—he showed the texts—“tonight . . . ‘heart.’”

Chittaphon looked devastated, but there was nothing he could say. Taeyong snorted and looked at the screen again, typing out an enthusiastic text.

4월 3일, 3:52 오후  
응, 좋은 생각! (Yes, good idea!)  
오늘 밤은 위대해~ ♡ (Tonight is great~ ♡)

He knew Chittaphon was eyeing the texts, and he took great pleasure turning his phone off and stalking back to the workroom. He’d lost his need to use the facilities and had got down to work, expertly ignoring Chittaphon for the rest of the day.

***

“What do you think got on Ten-goon’s nerves today?” Yuta asked, blissfully unaware as always. “He wouldn’t talk to me after he followed you out of the workroom. I also heard he snapped at a coworker and said something nasty to the director! Like, who pissed in his cereal this morning?”

Taeyong was listening to his babbling with only one ear. They were at Taeyong’s apartment, minutes before Xukun was due to arrive, and Chittaphon was the last person Taeyong wished to think about. He was looking at himself in the mirror, dressed in a new grey blazer and darkwash jeans, with fancy shoes and an ironed shirt. His hair had been done and his makeup perfected, and he’d even put on cologne.

“I feel expensive,” he said, grinning and giving a twirl. “Yuta, do I look expensive?”

Yuta frowned and ran a hand exasperatedly through his hair. “Taeyong! Did you hear? Ten-goon said something nasty to the director! What’s gotten into him?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” Taeyong announced surely, ignoring a pang of guilt that struck his heart. “He can do what he wants. It has nothing to do with me.”

“But—! The director!” Yuta tried, sitting down on the floor like a pouty toddler. “Do you think he’ll get fired? I really liked working on his new novel. The character’s Japanese . . .”

Taeyong rolled his eyes so hard he thought they’d pop out of their sockets. “No way. He’s too much of a moneymaker for Daydream. The director will get over it.”

4월 3일, 8:04 오후   
내가 왔어~~ (I’m here~~)

He read the text and almost jumped out of his shoes with excitement and nervousness. “He’s here! How do I look? Anything in my teeth? Any stains? Creases? Do I—”

“You look great, Taeyong,” Yuta said, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “He liked you then and he’ll like you now. Don’t worry so much.”

Taeyong smiled appreciatively and grabbed all his things, making for the door. Yuta followed him out of his suite, but waited inside the building—wouldn’t want Xukun seeing Taeyong walk out of his house with another guy!

Parked outside was a sleek metallic grey Porsche, low to the ground with tinted windows and soft music playing from inside. The driver’s side door opened and Xukun stepped out, all black suit with no tie and the top button of his shirt undone, and greeted Taeyong as he approached. He went around and opened the door for Taeyong like a true gentleman, and Taeyong climbed in, bumping his head on the low roof and trying to play it off.

“Where are we going?” Taeyong asked, running his hand along the clean dashboard and breathing in that new-car smell. 

Xukun winked. “That’s a surprise,” he said, then put the car in Drive and sped off down the street.

They drove into the bustling, beating heart of Gangnam, bright coloured lights illuminating the night and making the city glow like a Jack-o’-lantern. Everything was expensive cars and overpriced clothes, suits costing more than his yearly salary and dresses putting him in crippling debt. Every person walking the streets could very well be a pop idol—unlikely, but with their style and grace they definitely fit the bill. 

In awe, Taeyong tried not to drool. He is not the foreigner in this car, he reminded himself, so he forced himself to remain calm and collected. The car turned into an underground parking area and selected a spot marked ‘Reserved.’ Quizzically, Taeyong turned to Xukun.

“Where are we?” he asked, carefully avoiding sounding stupid or accusatory. 

“My closest uncle owns this restaurant,” Xukun boasted. “They still cook my family’s original recipes. Cool, huh?”

“Yeah,” Taeyong mumbled grudgingly. He thought it was just like Xukun to take him to his own family’s restaurant to eat, and recalled Chittaphon calling him ‘narcissistic.’

They exited the Porsche and walked to a stairwell, their footsteps echoing through the hollow, open space. The stairs opened to a fancy, Hangzhou-style restaurant smelling of seafood delicacies and hot ovens. It was bustling with patrons, every table full, a thrumming buzz of noise hanging heavy in the air from every person talking at once.

“Cai Xukun?” a surprised voice piped up. They turned to see a man in his later years holding open the swinging door to the kitchen, looking delightfully pleased.

They approached each other and hugged tightly, then began conversing in Mandarin. Taeyong could only understand a couple of words—‘long time,’ ‘family,’ ‘happy’—but he guessed by their tone and expressions that it was a friendly interaction. He stood there awkwardly, unsure what to do, not wanting to interrupt.

The older man asked what sounded like a question, and Xukun turned to Taeyong. “Of course! Where are my manners?” he said, switching to Korean. “Taeyongie, this is my uncle, Cai Yuanjun.” He then turned to his uncle and said something else in Mandarin, gesturing to Taeyong.

“Hello, nice to meet you,” said the older man. His Korean wasn’t very good, and it was heavily accented, but it was easily understandable. Taeyong bowed respectfully and introduced himself back.

Xukun and his uncle began another quick exchange in Mandarin, until the older man gently touched Taeyong’s wrist and said, “I have a table for you. Please, come with me.” They followed the man upstairs, to the outside balcony, where shiny fairy lights cast a magical glow over the relaxing space. 

They were seated at a table for two next to the glass railing, overlooking the heartbeat city below. Xukun’s uncle said a few final words to him before speeding off.

“Sorry he couldn’t interact with you more, he mainly stays in the kitchen and his Korean is not as refined as mine,” Xukun said apologetically. “He’s gone to fetch us menus and a waitress, who does speak Korean well.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Taeyong swiped his hand through the air, “I never fault anyone for language barriers. Enough people speak Mandarin that he shouldn’t have to be good at Korean. That reminds me, I should really learn Mandarin . . .”

“I’ll teach you,” Xukun winked. 

The waitress came over, a long-legged woman with straight black hair and a black dress, carrying two menus and a drink list. She spoke Korean flawlessly, so much so Taeyong had to look twice to be certain she wasn’t a native—but her facial features were distinctly Chinese, and her nametag read ‘Ming Zhu.’

Taeyong opened the menu and instantly felt dizzy. There were so many options—mainly seafood, but also some vegetable dishes and options with beef or pork. Spinning, he set the menu down and told Xukun to choose for him.

When their food came, Taeyong wasn’t sure what it was by looking at it, but the smell gave it away—pork. His stomach rumbled hungrily.

“You Koreans love your pig,” Xukun said good-naturedly. “That’s braised Dongpo pork. It’s a signature dish in Hangzhou, rather, my aunt’s version of it, and I thought you’d like it.”

Taeyong took a bite, and his mouth watered. It was juicy and flavourful, like it had been crafted for the Jade Emperor himself by China’s greatest chef, but had somehow ended up on Taeyong’s plate instead. Then again, Taeyong—being the massive foodie he is—would probably say that about Chinese takeout, too. Looking across the table, he didn’t recognize the dish Xukun was having, but he could see it included fried shrimp.

“I was thinking,” he began, wiping his mouth on a napkin, “it’s pretty brave that you’d take your—male—date to your family’s restaurant. I mean, I hear China’s views on homosexuality are even worse than Korea’s . . .”

Xukun smiled, but there was a broken sadness behind his eyes. “Yes. My parents—my father, especially—would disown me and act like I never existed if they knew, and that’s the best case scenario. But my uncle . . . I’ve always been close to him, and he knows I’m gay, and he loves me anyway.”

Taeyong smiled. “That’s good. How did he find out?”

“I told him,” Xukun said simply. “I had a feeling he’d be okay with it. He said he’d always had his suspicions, and that he’s glad I trusted him. He also promised never to let his brother—my dad—know, because he knows as well as I what he’d do.”

Taeyong looked down empathetically. He understood the feeling all too well. His own parents had no idea, but he knew he’d have to tell them eventually, and the thought made him shiver. He couldn’t guess how they would react.

Xukun had one hand wrapped around his glass of water—cheaply non-alcoholic, as he is the driver—and Taeyong watched it for a long moment, wondering why it made him feel sad all of a sudden. Then, it hit him, as he remembered the night when Chittaphon had become so horny he’d gripped his glass until it had shattered. That was the night they’d fought, and when their ‘escapades’ had ended for good. Shaking his head, he cleared the memory—it was the last thing he should be thinking about now.

“So, Taeyongie,” Xukun began, placing both elbows on the table and clasping his hands together, “how’s your love life been since I last saw you? Are you single now?”

“I wouldn’t be on a dinner date if I wasn’t single,” he pointed out laughingly. “My ‘love life’—or, lack thereof—has been uninteresting. Nonexistent, even.”

Xukun sat back in his chair disbelievingly. “No, that can’t be. Surely you must’ve dated, or at least endured a few one-night stands. It’s been years, after all.”

Taeyong blushed, embarrassed, and furrowed his brow. “Yes, it has,” Taeyong grumbled, “and I’ve been single all that time. No lovers, no one-night stands. Yes, really.”

Xukun raised his eyebrows and dropped his voice to a whisper. “You don’t mean to tell me . . . Are you a virgin?”

Taeyong’s blush reddened further. He couldn’t believe he was having this conversation again. “Yes. Pure as the Virgin Mary. Not by choice, I’m just . . . shy.”

“Well I knew that,” Xukun chuckled. “But twenty-two and a virgin . . . I’m surprised. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but you’re very attractive. I’m amazed nobody’s snatched you up yet.”

Taeyong blinked. “Very . . . attractive?”

Exasperatedly, Xukun huffed and shook his head. “Have you ever looked in a mirror? You’re blessed. You look like a fairy. I’m sure people have flirted with you before, but you’re just too shy to go through with it.”

“Well, whatever it is, I’m still a single virgin,” he sighed. “I’m trying to change that, but considering my track record . . .”

Xukun smirked slyly, a sudden sparkling hunger appearing in his eyes. “That’s no skin off my back. More for me, I suppose.”

A crawly feeling sunk into his stomach, and he suddenly felt like he’d digested. Xukun was looking at him like a wolf would look at a slice of prime rib, his claws out and drool dripping from between his monstrous teeth, eyes glinting as he watched his prey, haunches rolling as he prepared to pounce, to seize, to take.

Suddenly, Taeyong was reminded of being seated across from Chittaphon at the bar, only a few nights ago, when they’d been teasing each other without shame or abandon. He looked across the table and saw the raw, unhinged lust in the author’s eyes, making him quiver and sweat. But when he blinked, Chittaphon was gone, and Xukun had looked back at his plate. Despite himself, there was an empty feeling in Taeyong’s chest, but he ignored it.

The night progressed calmly, idle chatter being passed, a basic back-and-forth between old friends. Deep in Taeyong’s gut, a war was waging—his attraction to Xukun and desperation for a boyfriend was in the thick of battle with an unseen, unidentifiable force, a force like a hand holding him back, an emptiness and a feeling of loss that he couldn’t explain. All he could do was pretend it doesn’t exist.

When they climbed back into Xukun’s Porsche and the engine revved, Taeyong got an idea that would relieve his bogged spirit. “Shall we go for drinks?” he suggested, expectancy sparkling in his expression.

“Are you crazy?” Xukun snorted. “It’s a weekday. I’m almost sort-of a teacher, I have to be at school tomorrow. I’ve already been out too late as it is. Sorry, Taeyongie.”

Disappointed despite not knowing why, Taeyong was quiet the rest of the ride. He listened politely to Xukun’s chatter and gave mindless responses, gazing out the window at the streets as they wound back to his apartment. When they parked out front, Xukun got out to get the door for him.

“You don’t have to do that, I’m not a maiden,” Taeyong said, forcing a lighthearted chuckle.

Xukun shrugged. “You are to me.”

Unsure what to think of that, Taeyong didn’t respond. Xukun walked him to the door of the apartment complex, and as they said their goodbyes, Taeyong was pulled into a brisk, quick kiss.

“See you soon,” Xukun said with a smile, and then he turned and walked away.

Dumbfounded, Taeyong shuffled back into his suite and collapsed on the couch. Xukun’s lips were plump and warm, and—as Taeyong already knew—he’s a good kisser. Still, there was something missing, something Taeyong couldn’t put his finger on, though it lingered like a dark cloud over his head.

He stayed on the couch for hours that night, eventually drifting into restless and interrupted sleep.


	14. The Scent of Sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there!
> 
> Sorry about the long wait again, I was at camp for 4 days and as it was so busy I had no time to write. As well, I'm working on a personal novel and school is coming to an end, so expect chapters to come at longer intervals for a while. Thank you for your patience!
> 
> Enjoy this chapter and thank you for almost 10,000 hits!! ^~^

A navy Toyota Camry sat lonely in a parking space, engine rumbling idly, driver seated with his hands still gripping the steering wheel. It had been there a long while, noise polluting the quiet underground lot, one of the only cars in sight. It was an uncharacteristically early morning for Taeyong, the bleak sun barely risen from the horizon, and work wouldn’t start for another two-and-a-half hours.

Snapping out of his trance, he realized where he was and turned off the engine. How long had he been sitting there? He’d lost himself in his own thoughts, but now he could not recollect what it was he’d been thinking about. He took his shoulder bag and stepped out of his car, trudging up the numerous flights of stairs to the—empty—workroom.

Despite passing out on the couch and getting a very unsatisfying sleep, he wasn’t tired at all. Though, at the same time, he didn’t feel energized. He was just numb, neutral, void of coherent feeling. Perhaps some $1 coffee would fix that?

By the time Taeil arrived at work, Taeyong had drank three cups, and it still hadn’t jumpstarted the day’s emotions. Taeil said a cheery good-morning, though there was a worry behind his eyes—Taeyong is never first to work unless something is very, very wrong.

“How are you doing?” Taeil asked. He picked his words carefully, as though selecting from a pool of options with the picky paw of an indecisive cat. There seemed to be something else he wanted to ask that he was holding back.

“I’m fine,” Taeyong said briskly, engrossed in his work. He went to take a swig of coffee only to realize that the mug was empty. So he tried the next, and the next . . . 

Taeil sat across the table from him and gulped down his concern. “What are you doing that’s got you here so early?” he asked gently.

It had just dawned on him that he had been at the workroom since 6 A.M. He had been busying himself finishing up trivial tasks for the other writers under his care, decidedly avoiding the work he had to do reviewing Chittaphon’s notes. “Nothing serious,” he replied simply.

Johnny arrived next, and Mark soon after. They exchanged nervous glances at the sight of Taeyong, all creased clothes and under-eye bags, colour drained from his face and practically vibrating from caffeine overdose. Neither of them could find the words to say, so they simply sat down and got to work.

Yuta arrived last, a pep in his step, face sunny and smile bright, until he walked into the threshold of the room. There was a gloom hanging in the air, deafening, eerie silence, and it immediately took its hold on Yuta, wrapping its long tendrils and claws around him. He mumbled a greeting and sat next to Taeyong, looking spooked, like he was in the company of a ghost.

By 1:30 P.M., Taeyong had already made five more trips for coffee, and the cups building up around his workspace were beginning to form a wall. Yuta was glancing nervously at the clock, as if expecting something.

“Taeyong, has Ten-goon texted you?” he asked quietly, then shied away like an inexperienced hunter who’d disturbed a wild boar. “H-He should be here by now . . .”

Johnny shook his head, nonchalant despite the tightness of his shoulders that told he knew something was up. “I was notified by the director earlier . . . Ten-ssi called in sick. He’s not coming today.”

Yuta’s lip quivered and he glanced at Taeyong, guessing the relation. “That’s upsetting. I hope he gets better soon.”

Taeyong couldn’t share his sympathies. Chittaphon was surely the last person he’d want to see, and his absence was a blessing. Perhaps, if God is kind and giving after all, the author will stay sick for a few weeks.

He got up to get more coffee, but Mark daringly stopped him. They looked at each other, fear coming off of Mark in waves, aggression burning in Taeyong’s eyes. A tense moment seemed to stretch on forever.

Mark didn’t back down. “You’ve had enough,” he said, “any more and I think you may pass out. Seriously, there’s better ways to deal with your problems. We’re here.”

Ah, the joys of working with friends, he thought grudgingly. If he had colleagues who didn’t care, maybe he’d be able to drown his sorrows in coffee until he gets a massive caffeine kick, decides to jump out a window, and has a heart attack on the way down.

Alas, he sat heavily back down, shoulders sagging as if he weighed ten tons. Nobody moved, nobody dared speak, as if one word would release the dragon from its rusty chains. Finally, Yuta cleared his throat.

“So, Taeyong . . .” he murmured, voice soft, leaning forward expectantly. “How was your date? Did it go well?”

Taeyong brightened, thankful for the distraction from his mess of thoughts even he couldn’t decipher. “It was good! Nothing really . . . noteable happened, but it went well. He kissed me goodbye, too!”

The beast of tension seemed to weaken, its cloudy presence thinning, growling as it was dismantled and joy returned to everyone’s faces. Yuta had shaken free of its claws and tendrils, though a small part of it would not leave Taeyong.

“That’s great!” Yuta clapped gleefully, bubbling. “I told you he still likes you. Are you going to see him again?”

“I think I will,” Taeyong nodded.

By the end of their shift, the beast was nothing more than a puff of smoke cowering in the corner of the room. Taeyong began packing up after sheepishly taking his numerous cups to the sink in the break lounge and washing them. Johnny slung his bag over his shoulder and addressed the group.

“Drinks, anyone?” he suggested. Nobody had the liberty to refuse when he practically herded them into his Civic, strapping them in and driving down the busy streets to a simple corner pub. Taeyong knew that after his near-caffeine overdose, alcohol was probably the last thing he needed, but in his current situation it was the first thing he wanted.

They gathered around a table in the midst of the crowded lounge and Johnny ordered a round of beers. Mark continued to glance worriedly at Taeyong, looking like he had something on his mind. Taeil saw Mark’s expression and mirrored him.

“What do you think is wrong with Ten-goon?” Mark asked timidly, afraid it would upset Taeyong—but Taeyong didn’t flinch. He’d grown immune. “Do you . . . think it has anything to do with Xukun?”

“Yes,” Taeyong answered easily, a tone of boastful pride in his voice. “He’s jealous. Super-duper jealous. But that’s not my problem—I don’t like him anymore.”

Yuta and Johnny exchanged a glance that said they disagreed, but they kept their mouths shut. The drinks came and Johnny held up a glass.

“A toast,” Johnny said, “to Taeyongie, for expanding his horizons. Even more so, a toast to me! Can you guess why?”

The group passed confused and nervous looks among themselves. Johnny’s announcements were seldom ever good.

“Why?” Mark squeaked finally.

Johnny set his shoulders back in a posture of satisfaction. “I’ve been seeing someone. Nothing serious yet, only a couple dates, but . . . it’s looking good. Her name is Min Soo.”

Delightful applause erupted as everyone congratulated him. Taeyong couldn’t help but feel spiteful—Johnny was no stranger to girlfriends, but as long as Taeyong had known him, his longest relationship was five months. Something about the girls that Johnny attracted was never quite right. They tended to have commitment issues, past trauma, or just a general lack of empathy for others’ feelings, and it always ended in Johnny’s heartbreak. Nonetheless, Taeyong had to commend Johnny’s resilience—Chittaphon could learn a thing or two from him.

“Where did you meet her?” Taeil asked excitedly, leaning across the table. 

“She’s a barista at the coffee shop near our work. Since I go there so often, we got to talk a lot,” Johnny said, a wistful breathiness to his voice. “I must’ve charmed her, because one day she wrote her number on my cup.”

“How romantic!” Mark sighed. 

Yuta nudged Johnny with his elbow. “Have you . . . y’know . . . done anything yet?”

Johnny smirked, a glint in his eye. “No, not . . . yet. But the way we talk suggests she’s not opposed to the idea. I’m seeing her tomorrow night, so . . . we’ll see.”

Taeyong felt a burning jealousy boil in the pit of his stomach. Johnny was about to get his—what?—eighty-fifth notch, while Taeyong still didn’t have even one. They’re the same age! How is that fair?

“Is she cute?” asked Taeil, smiling giddily.

“Smokin’,” Johnny said, winking. “She’s so hot. I can’t wait to bag her—it’ll be a crowning achievement. I believe we’d make positively gorgeous offspring.”

Yuta snorted. “Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself?”

“Maybe a little,” Johnny chuckled playfully.

Taeyong prayed for an escape. His head felt like it was filled with bees from the caffeine and the beer, buzzing and shaking, and he was growing tired hearing about how excellent Johnny’s love life was going. Just then, he felt a vibration in his pocket.

4월 4일, 7:48 오후  
내 집에 와서? (Come to my house?)  
내 시프트가 내일 정오 이후에 시작되 ;] (My shift starts after noon tomorrow ;])

A spark crackled in Taeyong’s heart. He had a feeling of what Xukun was suggesting. Perfect timing, too—he needed to get his mind off Chittaphon, and quench his jealousy toward Johnny. He quickly texted a reply.

4월 4일, 7:50 오후  
니 집에 가라? (Go to your house?)  
오호 (Oho)  
왜? :> (Why? :>)

Of course he knew precisely why, but if he’d learned anything from Lucas and Jaehyun, it was that playing innocent and hard-to-get was the way. It would make Xukun crave him more, making it ever more likely something fun would happen.

“Who are you texting?” Yuta asked.

“Xukun.” Taeyong winked. “He’s inviting me to his house tonight.”

Johnny stood straight up and slammed his palms down on the tabletop, knocking over an empty pint glass. “Go. Lee Taeyong, look me in the eyes. Go. To. His. House.”

“If I do, you’ll lose the bet,” Taeyong reminded him.

“I don’t care!” Johnny shouted. “Lee mother-fucking Taeyong, you will go to that man’s house if I have to drag you there by the ear!”

“This is your chance!” Yuta added, eyes sparkling.

4월 4일, 7:53 오후  
우리 볼 거야 (We will see)  
넌 올 거야? (Will you come?)  
보고 싶어 (I want to see you)

Taeyong quivered with excitement and showed the texts to the others. “This is it!” he squealed. “Should I?”

Johnny reached across the table and grabbed his shoulders. “Yes, dammit!”

4월 4일, 7:54 오후  
응, 응 (Yes, yes)  
난 갈 거야 (I will go)  
난 술에 조금 취해있어 ㅋㅋ (I am a little drunk lol)

Taeyong grabbed his jacket and said a quick goodbye. Johnny was looking at him almost with tears in his eyes, like a father watching his son win an award. They all wished him luck as he sped out to the street and hailed a cab.

He gave the driver Xukun’s address and and off he went. He was unable to keep still, foot tapping and fingers drumming a rhythm on his leg. He checked his phone to see two final texts from Xukun.

4월 4일, 7:56 오후   
좋아 (Good)  
ㅋㅋㅋ (Lol)

The cab let him off out front, and he stood for a while at the start of the walkway, nervousness crawling all over his skin. He clenched his fists and walked to the door, taking several deep breaths before ringing the doorbell.

Xukun answered, and Taeyong reeled. He was wearing a loose, translucent white T-shirt and baggy ripped jeans, his hair was styled but his face was bare, and he smelled like he’d recently showered. He invited Taeyong in with a bright, charismatic smile, and shut the door softly behind him.

Xukun’s house was spacious and modern, colours ranging from white to light tan to mahogany to black. Everything matched and was beautifully designed and thought-out. Taeyong wondered what it was about him that attracted such wealthy people.

“If we’re being honest, I thought you might not come,” Xukun admitted, a sly look on his face. 

“Why wouldn’t I?” Taeyong asked defiantly.

Xukun shrugged and gave a lighthearted chuckle. “I thought you’d be scared.”

“Scared?” Taeyong’s eyes narrowed, and he burned with embarrassment.

“You’re a virgin, but you’re not stupid,” Xukun said coolly. “You know why I invited you here. Taeyong-ah, I was feeling lonely. I’m glad you came.”

His cheeks flushed and he felt his heart begin to pound. “Y-Yeah, I . . . I came.”

Xukun came closer and placed a cold hand upon the side of Taeyong’s neck, fingertips gently stroking his skin. “Won’t be the only time.”

Just when Taeyong thought his head would explode, Xukun walked away. He came back with a bottle of champagne and two long, thin glasses, and he set them on the table in front of the sofa.

“Come,” he said, “sit.”

Obediently, Taeyong sat. Xukun seemed amused as he popped open the bottle and poured the bubbly, golden liquid into the glasses. He passed one to Taeyong before clinking their glasses together and taking a sip.

“Elegant,” he said, sighing contentedly. Then, he turned his body toward Taeyong. “As I was saying . . . I was feeling lonely. I thought about who I could call and you were the first that came to mind. I’m very glad you’re here.”

Taeyong gulped. His head swam as the foamy alcohol entered his stomach. “What kind of ‘lonely’?”

Xukun smirked. “The thought of going to bed alone tonight is . . . most unappealing to me. Is that alright with you, Taeyong-ah?”

Something was trying desperately to hold him back; a small part of him wanted to refuse. But he pushed it to the back of his mind. “Of course,” he said sweetly.

The lights were dim, glowing atmospherically, reflecting in Xukun’s eyes. “Tell me,” he said, inching closer to Taeyong, “how do you imagine your first time? I can make it all happen. Right now.”

Taeyong sat back and thought about that. He imagined a huge, four-poster bed with silk sheets and fluffy pillows, rose petals littered everywhere and scented candles being the only light in the room. He imagined being laid down, his body sinking into the mattress, sweet green-tea lips kissing every inch of his body, hooded dark eyes glancing at him with unmasked lust and need. He realized with a start he was thinking of Chittaphon, and shook the idea away.

“I suppose I’d like a bed,” he shrugged, nonchalant. “Low light, soft music. I don’t know, I just want it to be good and memorable.”

Xukun nodded thoughtfully. “And protection?”

Taeyong remembered Chittaphon, across the table, his jaw tight and teeth clenched, eyes burning hot fire and breath coming out in short bursts as he asked, in a choked voice, “You would let me come inside you?”

He shook the memory away. “Yes, protection,” he decided. “I don’t think I have any bugs, but I’d like to be safe.”

They talked and drank well into the night. Every so often, Taeyong would see or hear something that reminded him of Chittaphon, and every time he’d shake the thought away; but every time the thought would return, like a pest that wouldn’t give up. Xukun kept bringing himself closer, until they were hip-to-hip, and Taeyong could smell his body lotion. By then, he was sufficiently drunk and reality had escaped him. He’d lost all abandon.

“You’ve had enough,” said Xukun, and he took the champagne away. Taeyong didn’t complain, every beer-flavoured hiccup reminding him of how drunk he was. He closed his eyes, feeling the room spin beneath him. He heard the sounds of cupboards opening and closing as Xukun rummaged around in the kitchen.

A weight pushed into the couch cushions beside him, and he popped open an eye to see who was there. The person next to him was very close, with dark hooded eyes and a blinding smile, gloss adorning his lips and shimmer on his eyelids, and his breath smelled of green tea.

“Are you okay, Taeyong-ah?” Chittaphon asked—although his voice was different, the accent sounding more Chinese than Thai. Taeyong paid it no mind, though, as he slipped himself into the author’s lap, straddling him.

“I’m fine,” he said, pressing his crotch into Chittaphon’s, pushing a shuddering breath out of him. Chittaphon’s hands ran up his shirt and squeezed his waist, his lips coming forward to leave soft kisses along Taeyong’s collarbone.

“You’re frisky all of a sudden,” Chittaphon droned sexily, hands stroking Taeyong’s skin, breath fanning against him and giving him goosebumps. “Shall we go to bed? It’s getting late.”

Taeyong nodded fervently, allowing himself to be carried down a long hallway. Chittaphon had gotten taller, he realized idly. Maybe matcha promotes growth. Huh.

The room was lit with flowery-scented candles, burning unabatedly, wax melting and dripping down to pool at the base. The bed was large and comfy as Taeyong was tossed onto it, giggling as he bounced before he was covered with Chittaphon’s body looming over him.

“Top drawer,” the author whispered, “grab the condoms.”

It was strange, Taeyong thought—didn’t he say those weren’t necessary? Oh well, if Chittaphon wishes to use them, that’s fine too. He crawled drunkenly to the bedside table and grabbed the first box his hands could grasp.

He was kissed eagerly, mouths clashing and tongues tangling, hands roaming each other’s bodies and stripping off articles of clothing. Taeyong was lost in the frenzy, heart and mind excited and giddy, and for the first time in a long time, he was truly happy.

***

When he awoke the next morning, he couldn’t decide which he hated more—the pounding ache in his head, or the pounding ache in his lower back. 

He rolled over with a groan, muscles stiff and eyes stinging as he opened them to the morning light. He couldn’t recall most of the previous night—how had he ended up having sex with Chittaphon? Where had Xukun gone? Regardless, he felt happy he finally did it . . . but as he looked around, it dawned on him that this was not Chittaphon’s house.

He was alone in the bed, but it didn’t smell like Chittaphon. There were no books, nor manuscripts, nor writing materials anywhere in the room. Instead, there were sticky notes with reminders scribbled on them, written in Mandarin.

On the bedside table, there was a slip of white paper, folded in half with something in the middle of it. On the front, it read ‘태용아’ (‘Taeyong-ah’) in messy printing, and he tiredly took the paper and its contents to read it.

Inside was a short note and, to Taeyong’s surprise and horror, ₩50,000 cash. The writing on the inside read:

태용아,

좋은 시간 동안 고마워~  
대접해 :]

\- 徐坤

(Taeyong-ah,

Thank you for the good time~  
Treat yourself :]

\- Xukun)

Taeyong couldn’t read the Mandarin, but he recognized it as Xukun’s name. Had he been so drunk he’d mistaken Xukun for Chittaphon? Besides that, by the look of it, he was being paid!

Fuming, he collected his discarded clothing from the floor and messily dressed himself. He stormed out the bedroom door, finding Xukun in his pajamas making something to eat. He looked sunnily at Taeyong, like nothing was wrong.

“What is this?!” Taeyong asked furiously, slapping the wad of money down on the countertop. Xukun looked at him innocently.

“It’s a reward,” he said, tickling Taeyong’s chin. Taeyong ripped himself away.

“Reward?! I’m not a prostitute!” he yelled, turning red with ferocity. Xukun seemed taken aback, his eyes widening, stepping away from Taeyong gingerly. 

“Of course not,” Xukun mumbled, as though unsure why he’d have to confirm that. “I never said you were. But I have money, and I know you’re not so well off, and I just wanted to thank you for—”

“Thank me?!” Taeyong exploded, throwing the wad of money at Xukun’s face, leaving bills to fan out and fall all over the floor. “Is that how you think a relationship works?”

Xukun’s eyes flashed with a sudden realization, and then he looked almost sympathetic. “Oh, dear . . . Taeyong-ah, is that what you think this is?”

About to retaliate, Taeyong stopped in his tracks, stuttering before falling silent. If not a relationship, then . . . what? Had he read it all wrong? 

“B-But . . . We went on a date,” Taeyong mumbled feebly, feeling tears begin to well in his eyes. “A-And you said I was the first person you thought of when you were feeling lonely . . .”

Xukun chuckled. “The first, on a list of others. Taeyong-ah, I don’t ‘date.’ I’m far too busy for that kind of commitment. I’m deeply sorry, I thought you knew.”

“How would I know?!” Taeyong cursed himself when his voice cracked, droplets beginning to fall from his eyes as it dawned on him that he was nothing more than one of Xukun’s toys; and he realized what a mistake he’d made, drunkenly losing his virginity to a man who didn’t even love him, all because he wanted to stop thinking about the man who does.

Xukun was silent. Furious, cheated, and humiliated, Taeyong turned and left, sitting in the foyer to put his shoes on, vision blurry through his tears.

“Hold on, Taeyong-ah—”

“Don’t call me that,” he said firmly.

“Taeyong,” Xukun tried again, slowly. “It’s only seven-thirty. Stay, take a shower, eat, and I can drive you to work. It’s the least I can—”

“No thanks,” Taeyong declined, “I don’t want your hospitality. I can go by myself. Delete my number and don’t speak to me again.”

Xukun was struck, but nodded solemnly, understanding. “Okay,” he sighed. “I really did enjoy it last night. You’re really beautif—”

With a huff, Taeyong stormed out and slammed the door behind him, cutting off whatever else Xukun was going to say. Trying to ward off his tears, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and began walking until he reached the city. It was then he realized—where the Hell is he?

For a moment he considered turning back and accepting Xukun’s offer after all, or at least taking the money to pay for a cab, but his pride wouldn’t allow that. So, he kept walking, trying to spot landmarks and street names he knew—but he was far from the side of Seoul he was familiar with, and every building looked just the same as the one next to it, and he had no way of knowing if his feet were taking him closer or even farther away.

He stopped at a red light, head hung. Looking up again, at the early-morning blue sky of spring, he tried to recollect the happiness he’d felt the night before—but that was only artificial, and without a hefty amount of drink it was out of reach. He scanned the cars, all greys and blacks and reds, shiny and new and expensive, tinted windows hiding the well-off people within. Then, just as the light was going to turn green, a white Bentley SUV rolled up next to him.

He paid it no mind, waiting for the walking man to appear and allow him passage across the street. But then the passenger side window of the Bentley rolled down, and classical music spilled out into the air, and the pungent scent of a fresh cup of green tea wafted toward him. He looked, and the breath caught in his throat.

“Taeyong?” Chittaphon, leaning over from the driver’s seat, asked, eyes quizzical. “What are you doing out here?”

Taeyong couldn’t respond. His mouth was sealed shut, and at the sight of Chittaphon and his caring eyes, his tears broke free again, leaving him sniffling and pathetic at the street corner. Sympathetic, Chittaphon leaned over and opened the passenger door.

“Get in,” he said, “talk to me.”


	15. The Scent of Misery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all :)
> 
> Finally this chapter is up! Things are a little rough now, but they'll be looking up soon. For . . . a little while, at least ;)
> 
> One quick note:  
>  \- Mapo Bridge is a bridge in Seoul (I'm pretty sure) that has been given the grim nickname "the Suicide Bridge" due to the high number of people who commit suicide by jumping off daily. For those who don't know, South Korea has some of the highest suicide rates in the world, topped only by, I believe, Japan. To put it into perspective, here in Canada (my home country), we get about 10 people committing suicide per day, which is bad enough. In South Korea, that number is a whopping 40 people per day.
> 
> Onto less depressing subjects . . . I've noticed some discourse in the comments lately, and I just want to say everyone is entitled to their own opinions and I completely endorse people voicing their thoughts as much as they like. Reading the comments is the highlight of my days, so please leave lots! However, I don't want anyone to fight over anything. Leave people to their own opinions, share yours, and move on, but please don't fight. Thank you :)
> 
> Moving forth, would anyone like to see a short side-story about Yuta and Sicheng's relationship? We don't get to see much of what goes on with them behind closed doors in this story, but maybe a special edition story could bring some light to that . . .
> 
> Let me know! Enjoy this chapter ^~^

“Get in. Talk to me.”

Taeyong crawled feebly into the car, sitting like a lump in the passenger’s seat of the SUV. Tears were streaming down his cheeks but he made no sound, just stared silently at his hands in his lap, at the droplets that collected there and mixed together on his skin. Chittaphon opened the glove compartment and brought out a package of tissues, handing them to Taeyong with a concerned expression, eyes soft and large and eyebrows knotted together.

As they drove on, in the direction of Daydream Publishing House, Chittaphon kept casting nervous glances at the broken man beside him. Taeyong’s bottom lip was trapped beneath his top teeth, quivering slightly with his sobs. He clutched an unused tissue in his hands like it was dear to him, fingers quaking as they rubbed the soft paper. Finally, Chittaphon spoke.

“Did something happen with . . . What’s-his-face . . . Xukun?”

Taeyong didn’t respond, but his head drooped lower, neck craned, and his eyes shut tightly, squeezing out more tears as he began to make small, quiet sounds. Every intake of air was shaky, every exhale was long and hollow, and some form of fluid was coming out of every orifice on his face. That was all the answer Chittaphon needed.

“I will kill that man,” said the author, eerily calm, hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white. “I can find out where he lives. I will go to his house, I will break in, I will put a gun to his head and I will—”

Despite himself, Taeyong laughed. It was genuine—not bitter and filled with resentment, but for once he was truly humoured. Somehow, his head was clear, and even though his tears would not stop, he had no doubts about himself.

“He’s a fucking asshole,” Taeyong declared, an angry smile on his lips. “I don’t deserve this. What did I do? He— You know, he tried to act all ignorant, but how could he really be so incredibly thick-headed? He humiliated me.”

Chittaphon turned down his radio and looked at Taeyong with narrowed eyes, passion burning behind the gorgeous brown irises, an enraged flame directed not at Taeyong, but at their now-mutual enemy.

“What did he do?” he asked, voice gruff and threatening, like he was already thinking of unjust punishments.

“I was drunk. Johnny told me to— No, you know what, I won’t blame him. Or anyone. This is all Xukun’s fault, for being a bonehead,” Taeyong spat, wiping his tears away brusquely. “He invited me over because he was ‘lonely.’ Said he thought of me first. Got me drunker. He took me to bed, and in the morning, he gave me money! Like I was some paid whore! Can you believe that? And he said I was ‘first on a list of others.’ He admitted, to my face, that I’m only one of his pawns! Can you believe that?!”

Taeyong conveniently left out the bit about seeing Chittaphon in his drunken state. That was information he would probably take to his grave, seeing as how they are on a strictly no-romance basis.

“You . . . had sex with him?” Chittaphon asked, and Taeyong nodded. “All the way?” Taeyong nodded again. “And he . . . paid you?” Another nod. Chittaphon banged his hand on the dashboard. “The audacity!” he cursed.

Taeyong shrugged. After the roller coaster of emotions that had unfolded in such a short time, he was drained of all energy. He couldn’t even be angry anymore. He had completely given up.

“Anyway,” Chittaphon began, softly, “I know you know this, but it isn’t your fault. What Xukun did . . . that was a dickhead move. And it doesn’t reflect on you. Don’t let it turn you away from love. Don’t . . . be me.”

That hit Taeyong hard, like a spear piercing his heart, a pang of sharp pain tugging at his heartstrings, breaking it into pieces. He heard the strain in Chittaphon’s voice, could see his raw emotion in his face and his posture, and he understood exactly what he was saying. Kim Soomi had almost killed Chittaphon, and even though so much had happened, opening a rift between them, the author wouldn’t wish his experiences on anyone.

The last time they’d spoken to one another, they’d ended on poor terms—Chittaphon had been acting like a child, and Taeyong had been ignoring his feelings. However, even with their relationship askew, there came a mutual understanding in that SUV, and even though Chittaphon was dying to say “I told you so,” he held his tongue.

They arrived at the publishing firm after a calm drive in silence, and walked up to the workroom side-by-side, shoulders millimeters from touching. Shocked glances were passed around Taeyong’s colleagues when they entered together, but no one dared say a word. Until . . .

“Weren’t you with Xukun last night?” Mark asked. Yuta’s head snapped toward him and he glared warningly, but it was too late—all had been said and done. Mark bit his lip guiltily.

Chittaphon didn’t react to Mark’s question, and it seemed to put the room at ease. Taeyong sat heavily in his chair and stretched, still lacking the energy to care. He’d already cried it all out, and the tear-streaks remained on his cheeks, cutting through his thin, day-old layer of foundation.

“I was,” he said, “and before you ask, we did have sex. Johnny, you lost the bet.”

Johnny merely smirked—he didn’t care one bit about the bet, and only pride shone in his eyes. All that evaporated, though, when Yuta asked:

“Well . . . how was it?”

The room held its breath. Taeyong pondered over his response a moment. He inhaled deeply, sat straight, and clasped his hands together on the table.

“Horrible,” he said flatly. Everyone but Chittaphon reeled back in shock. He went on. “I was blackout drunk and he was tipsy at worst. I was too out of it to really feel anything, but if I remember, it was unsatisfying and rough. Even more despicable was that he paid me! He gave me money in the morning and admitted I’m only one of his pawns. Call me an idiot but he should’ve made that clear. He used me.”

Taeil came over and placed a hand on Taeyong’s shoulder. Yuta gave him a pained look. Mark had a hand to his chest, eyebrows turned up. Johnny was stone-still and completely deadpan, as if he had no feelings at all.

“I’m sorry your first time was like that,” Yuta whispered, lips in a tight, straight line. “That wasn’t right of Xukun. He knew you took your first time seriously. He never should’ve thought to take advantage of you at all, or at least made his intentions clear.”

Mark’s eyes went wide, and his lips parted. “Wait, if you were so drunk . . . Taeyong, isn’t that”—his voice dropped to an almost inaudible whisper—“. . . rape?”

A series of loud thuds sounded as a pile of old manuscripts were swept to the floor, landing in rapid succession, one after the other. Chittaphon was standing over them, his dark eyes hard and angry. “Yes, it is,” he growled, “and whether Xukun knows that or not is irrelevant. He should’ve been wiser.”

Mark looked around uneasily, then glanced at Johnny for help—but Johnny’s eyes were downcast, and he hung back, away from the group, body turned toward the photocopier. Instead, Mark looked to Taeil, who quickly took the hint and plastered a fake smile across his face.

“Don’t let it get you down, Taeyong,” he said encouragingly, “it has nothing to do with you. Xukun has his own issues, but don’t let it affect the way you think about yourself.”

The photocopier spat out a slip of paper, and Johnny took it and crumpled it into a ball. He was still turned away, eyes down, knuckles white from squeezing his fist around the paper. Taeyong eyed him worriedly, wondering if he would—once again—have to pick up the broken pieces of his heart after yet another breakup.

“Do you think something’s wrong with Johnny?” Yuta whispered, echoing his thoughts, leaning over in his chair. “He seems . . . agitated.”

Taeyong screwed up his mouth. “I see it too. He does look upset. I don’t know what about, though.”

“Maybe it has to do with Minsoo?” Yuta inquired, a terrified edge to his voice.

Taeyong gulped thickly. He sincerely hoped not—after the last girl, Johnny was destructive. He’d shut himself in, barely ate, hardly slept. He would’ve lost his job if not for Yuta punching him in every day, Taeyong making excuses to the director, and Mark and Taeil taking turns doing his work. 

“Let’s pray that it’s nothing,” Taeyong whispered uncertainly, biting his lip. 

“Enough talking about Xukun,” Taeil decided finally, interjecting. “He doesn’t deserve our thoughts. Forget about him, he doesn’t exist—let’s just work.”

Chittaphon sat down gruffly next to Taeyong and slapped a fat pile of papers down on the table. He began sifting through them, aggression continuing to come off him in waves. He decided on a page and brought it out—there were a bunch of scrawled notes mostly in Thai, only certain words in Korean, like ‘spirit’ and ‘chaos.’ Taeyong also recognized the Kanji word for ‘yakuza.’

“Let’s start going through these,” Chittaphon muttered, still clearly disgruntled. “I want your input in the development of some plot devices. So this here . . .”

They worked well into the day and through the afternoon, and slowly the tension that Xukun’s actions had caused had begun to subside. By 6:30 P.M., Chittaphon was still bristling like an angered tiger on steroids, and Johnny had become as reclusive as a troglodyte. He wouldn’t speak or look anyone in the eye, and any attempts at conversation were met with responses of ‘uh-huh’ and ‘okay.’ On the other hand, Chittaphon’s mouth wouldn’t stop moving, as he chattered on constantly about his novel, distracting himself from his own jumbled thoughts.

When they finally punched out at 8 P.M., Johnny was nowhere to be seen. He’d made a quick escape from the workroom unnoticed, leaving everyone to wonder worriedly if they should go looking for him. Last time he’d been heartbroken and disappeared, they’d found him at the edge of Mapo Bridge, looking wistfully at the churning waters below.

Since Taeyong had been driven in Johnny’s Civic to the bar the night before, and then had taken a cab to Xukun’s place, his Toyota Camry was still parked in the underground garage, lonely and tired in the wide-open, near-empty space. His stomach was doing somersaults as he wondered where Johnny could be—did he safely return home early after a rough day, or was he once again standing at the precipice of death? They’d barely managed to rescue him the first time. A second time may be well too late.

His car beeped as he remotely unlocked it, but he stood by the driver’s side door, unmoving, for what seemed like an eternity. Johnny and him had had their disagreements, and they were hardly the best or closest of friends, but even so Taeyong prayed he had not met some untimely demise. Johnny was abrasive and boisterous and crude and a tad annoying, but it would be a cold and unfriendly world without him.

He was snapped out of his trance by the sound of nervous footsteps. Turning his head slowly, a relieved smile spread across his face at the sight of a tall, lanky, sleek-headed man standing a few meters away. Johnny still looked sheepish and distant, his car keys in hand, but he was alive, and didn’t seem to be going anywhere anytime soon.

They stared at each other for a long time, unsure what to say. Then, Johnny’s face screwed up, his eyes glistened, and to Taeyong’s surprise and terror, he began to cry profusely.

“Taeyongie,” he blubbered, sniffling and hunching his shoulders. “Taeyongie, I’m sorry!”

Completely taken aback, Taeyong didn’t know what to do. Never, in his many years of knowing him, had he ever seen Johnny cry. Even when he was heartbroken and depressed, he was stony-faced and emotionless. Now, his face was red and his eyes were welled up with tears, droplets cascading down his cheeks and dripping off his jaw, lips quivering and chest heaving with sobs. Taeyong panicked, face stricken with pity, hands outstretched but not knowing where to go.

“You . . . You wanted to lose your virginity for so long, ever since I lost mine . . . I promised I’d help you,” Johnny continued, words soaked with spit. “I said I would help, and then . . . Now this, your first time, with some asshole who feels nothing for you and treats you like crap, takes advantage of you and . . . And all because I pressured you! Me and my stupid bet, no-good stupid bet, good-for-nothing advice, and then all but forcing you to go see Xukun and it’s . . . Oh, God, Taeyongie, it’s all my fault . . .”

Taeyong softened, shoulders sagging. He knew most of that was true. At the same time, he’d already vowed not to place the blame on anyone; not himself, not Johnny, not even Xukun, who perhaps honestly thought he was doing the right thing. Maybe nobody was in the wrong; it was just a series of missteps and mal-faires.

“It’s not your fault, Johnny,” Taeyong said reassuringly, patting Johnny’s shoulder. “I made the decision to see Xukun and drink more at his place. Maybe you were overly-excited to get me laid, but I’m also an idiot and Xukun is a player. There’s a lot of wrongs here, but it’s not the fault of one sole person. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

Johnny shook himself off and wiped his face on his sleeve. “Thanks, Taeyongie. When you came in today, and told your story . . . I just felt so bad, I was so choked I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t help but think I . . .”

“Enough, you,” Taeyong said playfully, pulling Johnny into a big hug. He felt dwarfed by his size, but still warmed by his presence and beating heart, and still beyond relieved that nothing worse had happened.

“We were worried something had happened with Minsoo,” Taeyong went on when they broke apart, chuckling nervously.

“Huh? No, she’s great! Things seem really promising,” Johnny said proudly, a goofy grin taking up half his face. “She’s been in recovery after the messy breakup of a long-term relationship, but is now looking to move on. She’s got two loving parents and a brother, no past trauma, and no serious mental illnesses that she knows of! Believe that? I may actually have a lasting relationship this time.”

Taeyong smiled. “I’m happy for you,” he said, socking his friend on the arm. “Now don’t go beating yourself up. I won’t either. We’ll just move on, away from Xukun, and things will be brighter in the future. Amen?”

“Amen,” Johnny agreed. 

Perhaps talking is easier than doing. Once Johnny had cleared his head, gotten what he needed to off his chest, he was back to his old self, waving a cheery goodbye as he headed off. Taeyong got into his car and drove home, hearing his phone buzz incessantly during his ride, but he ignored the noise—no texting while driving, blah blah blah. When he arrived home, no sooner had he sat down on his couch for a restful evening when another buzz sounded, and he was reminded to check his phone.

4월 5일, 8:38 오후  
태용아 (Taeyong-ah)  
태용아 (Taeyong-ah)  
태용아 (Taeyong-ah)  
미안해 (I’m sorry)  
죄송합니다 (I’m sorry)   
보고싶어 (I miss you)  
좋아해 (I like you)  
사랑해 (I love you)   
제발 . . . 제발 태용아 (Please . . . Please Taeyong-ah)  
필요해 (I need you)  
지난 밤을 사랑했어 (I loved last night)  
난 너에게 더 원해 (I want you more)

Taeyong’s head hurt. His eyes stung from reading so many lies. He knew for certain they were lies, and Xukun was just drunk and horny as always, and would say any honeyed words that Taeyong wanted to hear in order to get inside him again. That is the nature of the player, the ability to manipulate, to tell an easy white lie and sway the weak-hearted.

No. Not Taeyong.

4월 5일, 8:54 오후  
넌 취해. (You are drunk.)

Taeyong wouldn’t be lured back easy, certainly not so soon after, and definitely not by the same man. Fool him once, shame on Xukun; but fool him twice . . .

4월 5일, 8:59 오후  
응 . . . (Yes . . .)  
너무너무너무너무 (Veryveryveryvery)  
난 아직도 널 필요로한다 (I still really need you)

Taeyong shook his head incredulously and quickly typed a simple, one-word reply.

4월 5일, 9:02 오후  
아니. (No.)

As he was fuming, steam practically coming out his ears, face red with anger, a call came through, startling him with its loud ring. Assuming it to be Xukun, he was about to decline the call when he saw the caller ID: It was Jaehyun.

“Hello?” he answered warily, wondering what Jaehyun could possibly want at this hour. 

“Hi! I heard . . . what happened,” Jaehyun said meekly, voice lowering. “Yuta told me. I was thinking you might need to unwind . . . want to come chill at my place? Lucas is coming, and so are Doyoung and Jaemin. If you just want to be alone that’s fine too, I understand.”

Feeling cornered by Xukun’s texts, he was glad he had a way out. Jaehyun had come like a guardian angel just when he was needed, and Taeyong silently thanked God.

“No, no, I’ll come,” he said enthusiastically. “I need something to get my mind off it and move on. I’m happy you invited me.”

Jaehyun made a pleased sound. “Great! See you when you get over here.”

Taeyong took some time to redo his makeup, change into fresh clothes, and fix his hair before taking his keys and heading out the door. He was still getting texts from Xukun, but was actively ignoring them.

4월 5일, 9:07 오후  
제바ㅏㅏㅏㄹ (Pleaaaaase)  
태용아 필요해 (I need Taeyong-ah)  
사랑해 사랑해 사랑해 (I love you I love you I love you)

“That’s wack,” Lucas said, in English, after Taeyong finished telling his story. He’d been the last to arrive at Jaehyun’s, and had been given a drink as soon as he’d sat down. Everyone gathered around the living room to hear of Taeyong’s endeavor, the details of which had only been prior told to Jaehyun by Yuta. 

“I’m just angry,” Taeyong sighed. “I always imagined my first time being really good, with someone I love who loves me, when I’m not too intoxicated to feel it.”

“Well, that was your first fault,” said Jaemin, taking a sip of his corner-store beer. “High expectation leads to disappointment, especially when it comes to sex. The same thing happened to me—I thought my first time was gonna be so great, but I came as soon as I put it in and the girl never spoke to me again.”

Taeyong shrugged. In a way, he was right—all his fantasies of silk sheets and scented candles were nothing but figments of his imagination, and he should’ve known he’d be let down. Even so, he never could’ve guessed he’d lose it in such a catastrophically humiliating way. 

Doyoung tipped his can until he got the last drop, then crushed it with one hand and dropped it on the coffee table. “Listen, that Xukun is a total, complete, utter asshole for what he did. I mean, my first time was bad, and Jaemin’s . . . yikes. But even that doesn’t compare to being taken advantage of and then paid. That’s just fucked up.”

Everyone nodded unanimously. Taeyong sat back with a huff. “He hasn’t stopped texting me all day,” he said. “He got drunk, missed work, and is begging me to come back. Look.”

He passed his phone to Jaehyun, open to the texts from Xukun, which by then had probably gotten into the hundreds. Jaehyun scrolled through them, eyes blown, exhaling slowly through pursed lips. When he reached the bottom, he suddenly looked alarmed.

“Um, Taeyong,” Jaehyun said, voice shaking a little, “there’s a new message here, and it’s . . . my address.”

Taeyong snatched his phone back and looked at the texts. Sure enough, Xukun had sent Jaehyun’s exact home address, and a second text after it had Taeyong’s spine tingling with fear.

4월 5일, 9:39 오후   
난 널 잡으러 올 거야 (I’m coming to get you)

“Guys, he says he’s coming here,” Taeyong announced, slamming his can down on the table and standing bolt upright, carding his hands through his hair worriedly. 

“Oh, no, he is not!” said Lucas, standing with him and flexing his fists, rolling up his sleeves.

Doyoung glanced at Jaehyun. “How did he find out where you live?”

“He probably tracked Taeyong’s phone,” Jaehyun cursed. 

“That’s creepy!” Jaemin covered his mouth in shock and horror.

Taeyong didn’t know what to do. Knowing him in high school, Xukun was always nice and caring and fun to be around. Something about him had changed in the time they’d been apart, and now a drunk husk of the friend Taeyong once knew was about to show up, and he probably wouldn’t be leaving without what he’s coming for. Panicked and unsure what else to do, he texted the only person he knew he could trust.

4월 5일, 9:50 오후  
도와주세요 (Help me)  
슈쿤이 오고있어 (Xukun is coming)  
난 재현의 집에서 (I am at Jaehyun’s house)

Panic had ensued, and everyone was on their feet. Jaehyun had locked his front door and propped a large armchair against it, Doyoung was closing all the windows and curtains, Jaemin was pacing back-and-forth and staring into space, and Lucas was readying himself for a fight. Taeyong knew he was in good hands, but he knew he could not stay locked in Jaehyun’s house forever. Would he ever be safe?

Jaemin leaped almost a meter into the air when a loud banging sounded. The front door shook on its hinges as strong blows landed against it, unintelligible yelling coming from the other side. Taeyong crouched behind the sofa to hide himself, squeezing his eyes shut, hoping it was all just a nightmare. 

4월 5일, 9:55 오후  
빨리 와주세요 (Please come quickly)  
슈쿤 여기에 있어 (Xukun is here)

“Taeyong-ah!” screamed the voice behind the door. “I know you’re in there! Come out, please, I just want to talk!”

Jaehyun banged on the door from the other side. “Get lost, Xukun! You’re not getting anywhere near him!”

Doyoung peeked out a window, glaring at what he saw. Taeyong carefully picked his way over to him and followed his gaze. Xukun was on the front porch, looking disheveled and swaying on his feet, hair messy and face burning with fury and desperation. Taeyong had never seen him look so scary—he was always kind and soft, gentle and easy to talk to. Whoever was at the door now was not the Xukun Taeyong knew.

Then, to Taeyong’s surprise, a white Bentley SUV drove right over the curb and onto Jaehyun’s front lawn, screeching to a halt as the passenger side door flung open and Johnny came storming out, sleeves rolled up and eyes ablaze. Taeyong didn’t see his friend—he saw a lion.

The lion grabbed Xukun by the collar and threw him to the ground, tackling him and raking its claws down his front, leaving bruises on his cheeks and a blackness around his eyes. The driver’s side door of the SUV opened and Chittaphon stepped out, watching in both anger and bewilderment at the vicious attack.

“You drunken fool!” the lion roared, horrendous sound bellowing from deep in its chest. “You absolute fucking disgraceful piece of shit! First you break his poor heart and now this?! You’re nothing but a slimy bastard who doesn’t deserve Taeyong! Not his love, not his affection, not his friendship, and certainly not his body! Why, I oughta—”

Suddenly, a tiger came and grabbed the lion by its scruff, tugging him off the terrified Chinese man. Xukun was crying very hard, and as soon as the enraged big cat was hauled off him, he rolled over and curled into himself, hiding his mangled face in his hands. The lion wrenched itself from the tiger’s grasp, whirling on it, haunches bunched and hackles raised, growling low and deep from within its chest.

The tiger watched the lion with a tempered gaze, dark eyes calm and face neutral. “Enough,” it said, voice stricken with a Thai accent. “Look at him. He deserved that but nothing more. He’s just drunk and stupid.”

The tiger threw a pair of car keys at the lion before continuing. “Take my SUV and get him home. Try not to leave any more bruises.”

The lion’s fur lay flat and he huffed. “All right,” it snarled, turning to Xukun and picking him up off the ground. The two hobbled off, back to the SUV, its doors still wide open. 

When Taeyong looked back, the tiger was gone. Instead, Chittaphon was standing on the porch with an exhausted look on his face. After a moment, he sighed and turned to the door, knocking softly a few times.

“Jaehyun-ssi? It’s me, Ten,” he said, voice strained and tired. After getting affirmation from Taeyong, Jaehyun moved the armchair and opened the door, allowing the author to enter.

Suddenly, Chittaphon looked wrecked with worry. He glanced around and, once his eyes rested on Taeyong, came running over and wrapped him up in a big, relieved hug.

“Are you okay?” he asked breathlessly, all his pent-up worry leaking out with his heartbeat. 

“I’m fine,” Taeyong assured him, burying his face in Chittaphon’s shoulder. When they pulled apart, he looked at the author quizzically. “I texted Johnny. Why did you come too?”

“Johnny was at my place. We were working on my novel and bitching about Xukun when he got the text from you. We drove here as fast as we could.” Taeyong nodded understandingly. Chittaphon took a deep breath and decided, “Now, let’s get you home.”


	16. The Scent of Security

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally here!
> 
> Sorry this took so damn long, June is a busy time of year and I have a whole mountain of projects and exams . . . Oof.
> 
> Nonetheless, this chapter is pretty long so I hope that makes up for it ^^" I can't promise the next one will be up before July, but we'll see . . . Please be patient :)
> 
> Enjoy this chapter!

They paused outside Taeyong’s apartment for a long time, the Camry’s engine grumbling quietly until Chittaphon finally turned the key and shut off the ignition. Taeyong stared at his house, once a place where he felt secure. Now, nowhere felt truly safe.

“Did you turn your location off?” Chittaphon asked, pointing to Taeyong’s phone.

“I did,” Taeyong said, “but I don’t think it’ll help. He knows where I live.”

Chittaphon hung his head and gave a loud sigh. “That’s true . . . But you saw what Johnny did, right? Xukun was beaten pretty badly. I don’t think he’ll be back anytime soon.”

Even so, Taeyong was hesitant to leave his car. With locked doors and smash-proof windows, and the author right there beside him, this was one of few places where Xukun couldn’t get him. Even his own home was not so safe.

Noticing his hesitation, Chittaphon took off his seatbelt and turned his body toward Taeyong. “Should I stay with you tonight?”

Taeyong’s skin tingled and his heart began to pound. He gave Chittaphon a coy look, batting his eyelashes. “Can I trust you, Ten-hyung?”

Chittaphon gave a short chuckle and returned Taeyong’s expression slyly. “Come on, after all you’ve been through? I wouldn’t take advantage of you like that. I’m not Xukun. I’ll sleep on the couch, yeah?”

Taeyong smiled and climbed out of the Toyota. “Okay . . . control yourself.”

Chittaphon followed him out, and as he passed, he gave Taeyong’s butt a soft tap, making him jump with a rather embarrassing squeak.

“I’ll try,” Chittaphon said.

Inside, the author made himself at home, zeroing in on Taeyong’s stash of green tea—hidden at the back of a cupboard, untouched for many months, yet found as easily as cocaine by a drug dog. Chittaphon reclined gracefully on the couch, bobbing the tea bag up and down in his mug. 

“Comfy?” Taeyong asked sarcastically. Chittaphon looked like a cat who’d found a new cardboard box to nest in, warm and purring contentedly. He sipped his steaming tea gingerly, smacking his mouth to savour the taste.

“Why, yes,” the author sighed, sinking deeper into the cushions. “I’m glad I don’t have a couch like this. I wouldn’t get off it.”

Taeyong managed a light laugh. He joined Chittaphon on the sofa, his hands clasped in his lap, a clock ticking distantly in the silence, the only sound besides that of the author’s gentle blowing on his tea. After a long while, Chittaphon set his teacup down on the side table and glanced at Taeyong, reaching out without saying a word nor moving a muscle. 

“I don’t know what to say about it,” Taeyong grumbled, answering the unasked question. He tried to recall the events of the night before, the flashes of consciousness in between blackouts, putting together his memories like a jigsaw puzzle with missing pieces or a badly-sewn quilt. In the end, there were still only fragments; most of which tasted like expensive champagne. “I was excited to be invited over. I knew what he wanted to do, and I’d never been asked out for something like that, and I’d wanted to lose my virginity for so long, and I was trying to get over you, and—” He broke himself off, relishing in a deep inhale. “But when I got there, I started to think I was making a mistake. I drowned my worries in alcohol and have only myself to blame. After that, I started dreaming. My mind was somewhere else, leaving my body defenseless and open for Xukun’s pleasure. When I woke up, there was money in an envelope, and it dawned on me how horribly I’d misread the situation. And that’s that.”

Chittaphon paused for a long time, a displeased look on his face, tasting Taeyong’s words on his tongue. After a while of stillness, he blinked and shook himself out of his trance, looking deeply into Taeyong’s eyes and giving a weak smile. “There’s nothing I can really say, is there?” he sighed. “Nothing can rewrite the past. What’s done is done. There’s no washed-up quote I can throw at you to make you feel better. All you can do now is forget about it, forget about him, and move on, and I will support you every step of the way. I can be your silent shoulder to cry on. How’s that?”

Taeyong smiled gratefully at him. “You can also help keep Xukun seventeen miles the fuck away from me,” he said, with a playful glint in his eyes. Chittaphon returned the look and nodded affirmatively.

“Will do,” he said.

Taeyong found the remote and turned the TV on. They watched lame television programmes for an estranged amount of time, and Taeyong found his eyelids were growing heavy, his muscles locking and making him droop. When he found he could no longer keep his eyes open, he gave up trying.

Moments later, streams of sunlight were filtering through the breaks between the curtains, and birds were chirping happily outside. He roused, blinking open his eyes to the calm yellow glow, stretching his long-disused muscles. The TV had been turned off, and the clock was ticking 7:45 AM.

Had he fallen asleep? It felt like only seconds had passed since he’d let his eyes shut. Nonetheless, he was safe at home, and nothing had happened. He let his eyes flutter closed again and nestled into the warm cushion, soft and pillowy despite a hardness below, resonating with an easy, relaxed heat. He let the rise and fall of his pillow lull him to rest.

Wait—rise and fall? Disgruntled, Taeyong felt around with his hands. Below him, there was cotton fabric, and, letting his hand travel upward, the fabric gave way to smooth skin and the pulse of a beating heart. He peeked open an eye and jumped back with a start.

“Mmf . . . Careful!” mumbled Chittaphon, sleepily, after Taeyong’s reaction pushed air out of his stomach and woke him up. Taeyong’s heart was racing. Had he slept the whole night with Chittaphon below him? 

The author gently opened his eyes and looked at Taeyong blankly. Then, something seemed to click. “Oh. Right,” he said quietly. “Morning.”

“I’m sorry!” Taeyong blurted out. “I didn’t mean to—!”

Chittaphon waved his hand. “Shh. Don’t be sorry. You went through a lot, you must’ve been exhausted.” He slowly began to sit himself up, groaning as he stretched his sleeping limbs.

“Why didn’t you wake me? I could’ve gone to bed. It would’ve been more comfortable for you . . .” Taeyong mumbled, cheeks red and hot like fire.

“I couldn’t bring myself to,” Chittaphon said wistfully. He then brought himself close and ruffled Taeyong’s hair. “You’re sooo cute when you sleep, Taeyongie! You were like a little baby, wrapping your grabby hands around me and snoring softly. You’re like a puppy, I want to keep you~”

Taeyong flushed even redder and curled into a ball. “Did I do that? Oh God . . .”

Chittaphon cooed and pulled Taeyong into a hug. “Shut up, you’re adorable~”

“Off, you, we’re supposed to be ‘just friends,’ remember?” Taeyong teased, pushing Chittaphon away. The author complied, albeit with a disappointed look in his eyes.

They took turns in the shower and Taeyong changed into fresh clothes—a t-shirt tucked into blue jeans, complete with a bomber jacket and sneakers. They took Taeyong’s Camry to work, and arrived just on time. As soon as they entered the workroom, Johnny dropped what he was holding and wrapped Taeyong in a big hug.

“What happened? Johnny was just telling us!” Yuta approached, giving Taeyong a worried look. Taeil and Mark crowded around, too, trapping Taeyong in the doorway.

Taeyong sighed. “I went to Jaehyun’s to drink with him, Doyoung, Lucas, and Jaemin, and Xukun tracked my phone’s location,” he explained. “He came to Jaehyun’s, drunk and trying to take me, so Johnny came and beat him up. Then Chittaphon drove me home.”

“Speaking of,” Johnny began, handing the keys to the Bentley back to Chittaphon, “as much as it pains me to give away that beautiful car . . . It’s in the belowground parkade. I asked a friend of mine to bring my car over so don’t worry about getting me home.”

Chittaphon flashed Johnny a grateful smile, and Taeyong saw a glow of friendship spark between them. Only a couple months prior, Taeyong never could have thought the two would ever get along, but they seem to have set aside their differences. Perhaps Johnny realized he was wrong about the author.

Johnny then turned to Taeyong. “You okay, buddy? I bet you were pretty shaken up.”

Taeyong nodded. “I’m okay now. I don’t think I’ll have to worry about him anymore, thanks to you. You did me a great favour, I owe you one.”

“Well, you can repay that debt by coming to dinner!” Johnny announced. Before anyone could object, he went on. “Minsoo has heard a lot about you guys and wants to meet you, so she’s proposed we all get together for food tonight. And, bonus, she’s totally LGBT-friendly—so Yuta, bring Sicheng, and Taeyong, bring your gay. She’s super nice!”

It was the most excited Taeyong had seen Johnny in a long time. A dash of worry crept up his spine—last time Johnny was so giddy about a girl was in University, and she’d ended up cheating on him and almost ruining his life. Taeyong hoped to God Minsoo wasn’t like that.

The day seemed to go by slowly. Chittaphon was caught up with other office personnel for most of it, stopping by the workroom every so often to confirm notes with Yuta. When they finally clocked out, Yuta, Taeil, and Mark piled in Johnny’s Civic while Taeyong rode with Chittaphon in his Bentley. They ended up at a classy Korean BBQ restaurant along the crowded streets of Seoul, and had to fight to find parking spaces.

Johnny led everyone inside. Seated alone at a large table was a pretty young woman, with long brown hair and modest makeup, gazing out the window with an expression of wanderlust. Johnny gestured for everyone to stay put as he crept up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders.

She startled, turning around to look at him wild-eyed. “Youngho-yah!” she said giddily, standing to hug him. Taeyong and Yuta exchanged a confused glance—nobody ever called Johnny by his legal name.

“These must be your friends!” she went on, turning to the group. “I’m Choi Min Soo. As I’m sure you know, Youngho and I have been seeing each other . . . I’ve been just dying to meet you all!”

“We’re still waiting for one more,” said Johnny, motioning to Yuta. “His partner, Sicheng, should be joining us shortly.”

Just as he said that, Sicheng nervously crept through the restaurant doors. Yuta embraced him in a hug, and together they all joined Minsoo at the table.

“You call him ‘Youngho’?” Taeil began, tilting his head. Johnny and Minsoo were sat next to each other looking like newlywed parents taking their children out for brunch. “He normally gets people to call him Johnny, his English name . . .”

Minsoo looked tenderly at Johnny. “Yes. John Seo, as he’s known formally in hometown Chicago,” she said. Taeyong noticed pointedly she had trouble saying ‘John,’ pronouncing it more like ‘Jyan.’ “As you can probably tell, I have a serious problem with Jyan . . . Jo . . . ‘Johnny.’ I can’t say it well. He told me I can call him Youngho if it’s easier.”

Taeil nodded understandingly. It was quiet then, for a moment, bringing attention to Yuta and Sicheng whispering secretly to one another, and they quickly stopped talking as soon as they noticed they’d drawn the eyes of everyone else present. Sicheng looked sheepish.

“I heard about you two,” Minsoo said, in a sweet, droning voice. “Youngho tells me it took someone walking in on your ‘endeavors’ for you to finally admit you’re seeing each other. What’s your story?”

Sicheng and Yuta exchanged a glance, neither knowing which would start. Yuta encouraged Sicheng to speak up, and he turned to Minsoo slowly with a nervous expression.

“We . . . didn’t know how everyone would react if we told them,” Sicheng murmured. “We didn’t want to lose their friendship, or worse. At times we considered breaking it off to preserve our friendships, but we never could keep away from each other . . .”

Taeyong couldn’t help but steal a glance at Chittaphon. Yuta and Sicheng’s dilemma was strikingly similar to theirs, leaving Taeyong to always wonder if Chittaphon would ever make another move. With a start, he realized Chittaphon was staring right back at him, an unreadable emotion behind his dark eyes that sent Taeyong’s heart aflutter. Then, it was gone, as the author shook himself free of their locked gazes and sipped gingerly from his water glass, training his eyes to the ceiling.

“Youngho, introduce me properly,” Minsoo requested, gesturing to the table. “I’ve heard their names, but I’m not sure I quite remember who’s who.”

Johnny chuckled and sat up straight. “That’s Nakamoto Yuta and Dong Si Cheng, foreign sweethearts from Japan and China, respectively. That’s Mark Lee, Moon Tae Il and Lee Tae Yong across from us, and at the end is the famous author . . . Uh, I can’t say his real name, but we call him Ten.”

Chittaphon scoffed inaudibly and set his glass down. “Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul. That’s Chi-ta-pon Ee-cha-ya-pon-kun. Even for Thai names it’s one of the longer ones, but as he said, people close to me call me Ten.”

Minsoo’s eyes widened. “Oh! I’ve seen you on TV! I love your novels ‘Languished Love’ and ‘Forgotten Deity.’ Youngho said he worked with a famous author, but since he couldn’t say your name, I didn’t know it was . . . Wow, it’s an honour to meet you.”

Chittaphon smirked, doing a sore job of hiding his smug pride. “Ah, well . . . The honour’s all mine. Long as you do right by Johnny, we’ll get along famously.”

Minsoo took another few moments to swallow her celebrity fever before turning away from Chittaphon. “And you,” she went on, “Lee Taeyong. I’ve heard lots about you. The ‘22-year-old virgin,’ right?”

“That’s my legacy,” he muttered sarcastically. “For the record, I lost my virginity recently. And! Johnny, you know Lee Tae Min from HR? He’s, what, twenty-four? He’s a virgin. Well, allegedly.”

Yuta snorted a laugh, giving Taeyong a sly look. “Virgin? With a face like that? I think the word you’re looking for is ‘twink.’ That man has ‘gay’ and ‘bottom’ written all over him.”

“I was talking to Amber from HR the other day. She works with Taemin,” Mark whispered. “She told me she’d seen Taemin sneaking into the old files room with Kim Jong In from IT more than once. I don’t know what to think about that, but it seems fishy. What would an HR guy and an IT guy have to do in the old files room?”

“Each other,” said Yuta.

Minsoo looked baffled. Johnny waved his hands in the air to dismiss the subject. “Okay! Enough talk of workplace gossip. You guys have no shame, really.”

“No, I’m intrigued!” said Minsoo, eyes sparkling like a true lover of drama. “Yuta-ssi, you said this Taemin seems like a ‘bottom.’ How can you tell that sort of thing?”

“The amount of gay I am,” said Yuta, matter-of-factly, making Chittaphon spit out his water. With a smirk, Yuta went on. “We gays . . . We have a sixth sense for these things. I can sense other gays like an alcoholic senses Happy Hour.”

Chittaphon scoffed incredulously, but his expression was amused.

“I can!” Yuta insisted. “I can’t explain how I know, I just . . . know. Like, for example, you know Oh Se Hun from Department 2? Complete, one-hundred-percent, bona-fide homosexual, that one.”

“Oh, come on! Even I could tell that!” Mark objected.

Taeyong watched them banter with equal amounts amusement and exhaustion stirring in his mind. Minsoo seemed to greatly enjoy the way they went on, arguing over the private lives of coworkers they knew nothing about. Quietly, Taeyong agreed with some points Yuta made, like how Kim Jun Myeon from Department 3 was ‘far too feminine to be straight.’ Johnny finally got them to shut up by promising drinks in exchange for silence.

“Okay, I promise I’ll talk about something else, but first I just want to say . . .” Yuta paused dramatically before he finished his sentence, “Byun Baek Hyun from IT and Park Chan Yeol from Department 3 are definitely an item.”

“Where’s your proof?” Mark challenged.

“Enough!” Johnny ordered loudly, then summoned a waiter with a pointed look at them. “One round of Soju, please.”

In no time, Taeyong was buzzed off his second Soju bottle. Chittaphon was not limiting himself either, halfway through his second and already ordering a third. The conversation had changed from idle gossip to pop culture preferences, and Minsoo wasted no time in sharing her adoration for Chittaphon’s work.

“‘Languished Love’ is an excellent story, so rich with subtext,” she slurred, sighing happily. “To write romance like that . . . I would think you must have many experiences with women, but you said on a TV show that you’re ‘not as experienced as you’d like to be.’ Is that true?”

Taeyong remembered when that show aired. It was a quiet Saturday evening no more than a month ago, when he’d tuned in absentmindedly to a late-night variety television programme revealing celebrities’ deepest secrets—or so they say. That was a mere night before Chittaphon had appointed him as his editor, a time which seemed so long ago when really only a matter of weeks had passed. They had been through so much, Taeyong realized, and he blushed as it dawned on him that he’d gone from ogling the author on TV to kissing him passionately in a resort hotel room.

“It is. I’ve had girlfriends before, but as of right now . . .” Chittaphon took a deep breath, then said, “I haven’t slept with anyone in over a year.”

Everyone at the table reeled back in shock. Even Taeyong was surprised—he knew about Chittaphon’s aversion to love, thanks to Soomi, but he hadn’t realized the author had also abstained from sex. 

“No way!” Yuta gasped. “Looking like you do? God, I couldn’t imagine going a whole year without . . .”

“Try twenty-two,” Taeyong quipped.

Chittaphon ground his teeth. “I know. It’s driving me nuts.”

Taeyong felt his blood boil when Chittaphon looked at him then. So much irritation and primal need was cooking in that dark gaze, a thousand unspeakable words swirling behind those black irises. Taeyong looked into it calmly, eyes level, breathing gentle, and he said:

“Then what’s stopping you?”

And suddenly, as Chittaphon exhaled sharply through his nose, there was no longer a Thai man sitting at the table. No, for at the end sat an alpha wolf, jacked on testosterone and baking in spring heat. It dug its claws into the wood and bared its fangs, eyes flickering as if weighing the consequences of pouncing on the prey it wanted so badly. Taeyong knew, staring into the wolf’s face, that he was the prey—but he wasn’t afraid of being eaten.

Nobody else seemed to see the wolf, and within seconds its fur lay flat and it shrunk back to human form. Chittaphon looked at his water and felt the nail marks in the table with disinterest. “I seem to be incapable of sleeping around without falling in love. There is someone I wish I could have, and I know I could, but I . . . I can’t risk falling for . . . You know what, it’s complicated. Nevermind.”

The talk flow went on like nothing had ever transpired, but Taeyong was still mulling over the black look in Chittaphon’s eyes, the pure wanton energy that was still coming off him in waves. It had been a relatively long time since anything out-of-ordinary had occurred between them, and Taeyong realized that the distance must set Chittaphon more on edge than he was letting on.

Two hours and two more Soju bottles later, Taeyong was sitting splayed-out and groggy in the back of a cab, Chittaphon at his side. The author was lax and seemed almost dead, the only giveaways of his livelihood being his gradual breathing and the occasional reaction to bumps in the road. Neon was filtering through the windows from both sides, bathing Chittaphon’s beautiful skin in colour, casting shadows across the car seat. Slowly, as Taeyong watched him, the author’s hand crept across the seat to latch onto Taeyong’s, and suddenly the radio was quieter than his beating heart.

He awoke on his stomach, half-on half-off the sofa in his apartment, late afternoon sun cascading across the carpet. How had he gotten home? Who’d paid the cab driver? So many small details had been lost—most importantly, where was Chittaphon?

After checking the bedroom and the bathroom, he concluded the author could not be in his apartment. A small part of him was worried—what if he’d drunkenly gotten lost and was now wandering aimlessly along the streets of Seoul? What if he’d passed out somewhere, like a park bench or a dark alley, and was now confused and hungover with a cough and a fever? Taeyong’s heart clenched with worry, until he opened his phone.

4월 6일, 9:56 오후  
난 집에서 지금 (I am at home now)  
난 안전해 ♡ (I am safe ♡)  
괜찮아? (Are you safe/okay?)

Taeyong felt both relieved that Chittaphon was okay and guilty that he hadn’t answered. Quickly, he typed out a reply.

4월 7일, 2:37 오후  
네, 괜찮아요 (Yes, I am safe/okay)  
난 오늘 잠을 자요 (I slept in today)

Taeyong wondered a moment why they were having this conversation, and slowly, a memory came back to him. Vaguely, he remembered hobbling out of the taxi, and Chittaphon tapping his shoulder and mumbling, “Text me that you’re safe.” He once again felt guilty that he’d fallen asleep without doing so.

4월 7일, 2:39 오후  
좋아 좋아! (Good good!)  
내가 걱정했어 (I was worried)  
난 오늘 감독과 일정을 가지고있어, (I have schedules with the director today,)  
그 후에 올 거야? (Will you come after that?)  
난 ‘룬’을 연구하고 싶어 (I want to work on ‘Rune’)

Taeyong laughed at himself. It had been weeks since Chittaphon had revealed himself to be Rune, the secretive author of dirty gay novelettes that Taeyong enjoys maybe too much. They’d tried and failed on numerous occasions to properly work on Chittaphon’s latest ‘Rune’ work, ‘In Words He Trusts,’ which was so close to completion but had been pushed aside in favour of other activities, like dinners and blowjobs. Taeyong hoped that they would finally get a chance to properly work.

4월 7일, 2:41 오후  
네, 난 올 거예요 (Yes, I will come)  
아무것도 가져다 줄까요? (Should I bring anything?)

4월 7일, 2:42 오후  
아냐 (Nah)  
넌 충분해 (You are enough)

Taeyong flushed at the response. He figured, realistically, it probably meant nothing—but why did he have to word it like that? For hours, Taeyong was brimming and shaking with anxiousness, when he didn’t have anything to really be anxious about. He was just going to do his job, help a famous author edit his novel. Right?

By the time he’d watched enough TV soap opera episodes to qualify himself as an honorary old woman, it was late in the afternoon, but Chittaphon had still not texted him. He changed out of his ratty ‘at-home clothes’ and into something more presentable, but without looking like he was really trying—a long, white shirt under a black sweater, with ripped blue jeans and white trainers. He sat back at his couch with a bag of chips and started watching sports he didn’t know how to play, mind wandering elsewhere. He thought about meeting Chittaphon, late at night, at his house, the place where they first kissed. He thought about kissing him again, being pressed against the wall with his hands above his head and devoured, mercilessly, forgetting about all responsibility and reason. He imagined lying down, with Chittaphon looming over him, his dark eyes gazing down at his prize with unspeakable lust and adoration, hunger boiling in that space between them. He was brought back to reality when someone scored a goal on TV, and he looked down shamefully at the rather obvious tent in his pants. He thought he’d have time to ‘deal with it,’ before his phone buzzed with an incoming text, and Taeyong cursed. Why now?

4월 7일, 8:37 오후  
난 집에서 지금 (I am home now)  
넌 와도 돼 (You can come)

Left with no choice, Taeyong tucked his shame away and made for the front door. In his car, he was forced to push aside his feeling of intense horniness and discomfort and focus on the road, despite his mind still buzzing with images he’d conjured up. The situation was dangerous, following their swear to stay off each other, and Chittaphon’s clearly waning self-control. If it did come to a crescendo, and Chittaphon kissed him, would Taeyong be capable of pushing him off like he’d promised?

“I have to,” he swore to himself. Hearing out loud made it more final. A part of him felt regret it had to be this way, that maybe, if only things had been different . . . Ah, no point crying about it now.

When the door opened, and Chittaphon smiled at him, Taeyong knew he was done for. The author donned a black-and-white floral blouse, tucked into black jeans, complete with bold navy blue suede boots. His hair looked like it’d been done but had escaped its gel bindings, his eyelids were dewey and sparkled, his cheeks were red, and his lips were glossed. He smiled with a look of excitement in his eyes, ushering Taeyong inside and sitting at the island in the kitchen.

“You’re dressed up,” Taeyong observed, looking Chittaphon up and down. “And . . . are you drunk?”

Chittaphon laughed earnestly, letting out an uncharacteristically loud chuckle. “I have been drinking, but I wouldn’t say I’m ‘drunk.’ I finished up work with the director and a few other higher-ups, and then we all went for a quick drink. I wasn’t about to get smashed in front of my bosses, so I’m still . . . coherent.”

“Right,” Taeyong nodded, slowly. There was a warm, almost fuzzy, aura resonating off Chittaphon, almost as though he were made of clouds and cotton candy. Taeyong came to the realization that he’d only ever seen the author in two states: Sharply sober and savagely smashed, but never in-between. In his current state, buzzing like a bumblebee—and fluffy like one too—he was actually very cute.

Chittaphon slumped into his seat at the island, a goofy smile on his face, and set the manuscript on the countertop. It gleamed with new creases and dents from all the work they’d done together—when they had actually done anything at all. There were pen marks and bend lines and scrapes and tears and stains and indents, but somehow it was still wonderfully intact. Chittaphon opened the novelette to a certain page in one of the earlier chapters. 

“The first thing in need of revision is this, the scene where Jaegi and Taehyun kiss for the first time,” Chittaphon explained in a professional manner. “It’s fine story-wise, I just think it can be written better. Give me some lip analogies.”

Taeyong stared at him blankly. “Lip analogies?”

“You know, metaphorical ways to describe lips. How they feel, how they look, in a more poetic fashion,” Chittaphon said, rolling his wrist as he spoke.

“I’m not a writer,” Taeyong shrugged.

Chittaphon rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to be. Just describe lips, in a way that’s not so . . . scientific.”

“Um.” Taeyong gulped. He wasn’t sure where to start. He thought about how it felt to be kissed, with the little experience he had. Xukun’s lips were always smooth, but his kisses were rough and forceful that left little to savor. Certainly for a scene like the one in Rune’s book, they were not the lips to be used as example.

“I don’t think I’ve kissed enough people to . . .” he trailed off. Chittaphon was giving him a long look, contemplating, as if weighing a number of actions in his head. In the end, he did nothing, just blinked his Soju-dazzled eyes and gave a weak smile, shrugging his shoulders.

“You’ve kissed me,” he said quietly, almost as if the words were difficult to get out. He was looking at Taeyong as if looking through, past the skin, into the heart he knew he’d touched. Taeyong felt a clench in his chest.

He looked at Chittaphon’s lips, at the thin layer of shiny gloss that covered them, at the defined lines that separated them from the rest of his face, making them pop out in an inviting bow shape. Relatively, his lips were slim, but still they looked soft and plush as Taeyong knew them to be. He remembered kissing them, feeling them pressed flush against his own, and Chittaphon’s short but deadly tongue swiping out and mingling with his. Taeyong’s face quickly turned red as all sorts of unstoppable memories flooded his mind.

Chittaphon’s attention was directed elsewhere. He was flipping through his manuscript, scribbled over with small Thai notes, certain words crossed out and some whole sentences with lines through them. He seemed unfocused but nonetheless trying to make his brain think, eyes squinted and brow furrowed, tip of his tongue caught between his front teeth. Taeyong watched him, admired his profile, helplessly lost in the images of Chittaphon’s lips and tongue and mouth and what they could do. 

Suddenly, Chittaphon’s head darted up. Taeyong blinked out of his fantasies and was faced once more with the full force of his gaze. “Well?” he asked, smiling, sparkling with anticipation. 

Taeyong’s face felt like a stovetop burner, but he gulped down his embarrassment. Above all else, he must do his job. “Well . . . You could say, um, his lips are . . . plush, like a silk down pillow? Does that make sense?”

Chittaphon made a face of consideration. “Not bad,” he decided, and began scribbling more Thai notes. For all Taeyong knows, he could be writing ‘Never ask editor for advice again,’ but he decided not to pry.

Boredly, Chittaphon flipped to more ‘problem sections’ and discussed them in a rushed and tired manner, then commissioned Taeyong’s help, wrote more notes, and the cycle went on as such. Hours ticked away before Taeyong even realized the sun had gone down. Looking behind him, out the sliding-glass doors to the balcony, at the bright city below the hilltop penthouse, it seemed so far away. It was shining invitingly, beckoning him to its shiny embrace, but they were trapped in a world of their own, separate from it all. There was nobody around to bother them, pressure them, judge them, or expect something from them. 

“So I was thinking— Taeyong, are you listening?” Chittaphon was saying. Snapped out of his trance, Taeyong spun around to look back at him, at the countertop, at the manuscript. He looked sheepishly at Chittaphon—he had not been paying attention.

“You’re getting distracted again,” Chittaphon warned patiently. “Shall we take a break?”

Taeyong shook his head insistently. “No, no, it’s fine. I just zoned out for a moment. We need to finish this.”

“We won’t if you’re absent,” Chittaphon stuck his tongue out. “Come on, we’ve worked for hours now. Just a short break to refresh our minds and relax. I’ll put some music on.”

Chittaphon hopped off his chair and shuffled over to his stereo, flipping through a basket full of CDs to find an old, nostalgic record from the early 2000’s. Slotting it in, ancient EDM droned from the speakers, and Chittaphon began boogying over to Taeyong with a look like he was definitely inviting a dance-off.

“No, oh my God,” Taeyong giggled, resisting Chittaphon’s attempts to drag him into the living room, “you know I don’t dance.”

“You could dance at that club we went to, from what little I remember,” Chittaphon urged. 

“I was drunk,” Taeyong reminded him.

“And I’m an author. Some may call me a shut-in. You think I’m much better than you?” 

“Yes,” Taeyong insisted. “You dance really well.”

“Okay, maybe I had one or two dance classes as a kid, but . . .” Chittaphon trailed off. “Just come on!”

Against his will, Taeyong was yanked off his seat and led to the open living space-turned-dance floor, where Chittaphon was tearing it up with every move in his database, holding nothing back. Taeyong stood by the edge and nervously swayed back-and-forth, tapping his foot to the beat.

“Get in here!” Chittaphon pressed again. He took Taeyong by the shoulders and tugged him into the middle of the room, forcefully jiggling him and rocking him to-and-fro. “Just let loose! I won’t laugh, I promise.”

Once he was released, he began attempting to match Chittaphon’s moves, moving to the beat in a reserved but trying way. The author seemed to appreciate his efforts, taking him by the hands and guiding him through the song, and soon the two were dancing hip-to-hip, shoulder-to-shoulder, and chest-to-chest.

“Here, I’ll put on something you’ll definitely know,” Chittaphon suggested, making his way to the stereo and digging around in the CD basket. “And if you don’t know this song, well, you can get out of my house.”

Taeyong smirked, but immediately jumped as he recognized the iconic track: ‘Tears’ by Chan Whee. “Of course I know this song!” he scoffed. “Everyone in the Korean-speaking world knows this song.”

“Good,” Chittaphon said, then jumped into mouthing the words. He looked at Taeyong as if speaking to him: ‘Let’s regard anything as not happening, let’s regard each other as strangers from the first . . .’ Taeyong rolled his eyes at the author’s overly-dramatic performance as he advanced, and though he wanted to sing the lyrics with him, he held his tongue.

“‘Dubeon dashi, neon nareul chajjima!’” Chittaphon belted, off-key and more of a scream. Taeyong watched him, laughing, as he came close and wrapped his arms around his neck. “‘Naro inhae, apahaltenikka!’”

Closing his eyes, Taeyong gave in, taking Chittaphon by the waist and pulling their hips together, accepting the challenge of who can scream the loudest. 

“‘Janinhan!’” Taeyong yelled melodramatically, squeezing Chittaphon’s waist and bumping their foreheads together.

“‘Yeojara!’” Chittaphon matched, bringing his hands to the sides of Taeyong’s face and squishing his cheeks. He then broke free and dropped to his knees, legs splayed apart, hands curled into fists and pointed to the sky. Taeyong jumped onto the couch and put one hand to his chest and the other out before him like a statue of an ancient philosopher.

“‘Nareul yoghajineun ma!’” they hollered together, Chittaphon wiping a fake tear and Taeyong clutching his shirt. He felt ridiculous, but how could he possibly have resisted?

Taeyong jumped down as Chittaphon got to his feet, beating the author to the next line by running a finger along his jaw and tilting his chin up. “‘Jamsi, neoreul wihae, ibyeoreul taeghangeoya . . .’”

Chittaphon, though stunned for a moment, would not be bested—certainly not for the best part! He grabbed Taeyong tightly by the shoulders, shaking him lightly, with an exaggerated pleading look in his eyes.

“‘Ijjineun ma! Nae sarangeul!’” he begged, clutching Taeyong’s biceps with a well-acted ferocity. Taeyong wrapped his arms around Chittaphon and lifted him off the ground, joining in for the next line: “‘Neoneun naeane isseo!’”

Chittaphon wrapped his arms and legs around Taeyong and they spun in circles, singing, “‘Giljin, anheulgeoya, seulpeumi gagikkaji—’” They stopped spinning, Chittaphon leaned back with his arms in the air and finished, “‘—yeongwonhi~!’”

Dizzy, Taeyong let Chittaphon down, but in his slightly drunken state he quickly stumbled and fell backwards, his foot catching Taeyong’s ankle and taking him down, too.

After a short frenzy, Taeyong found himself splat on top of Chittaphon, who was spread out—starfish—on the carpet, laughing so hard there were tears in his eyes. Taeyong lifted himself up, supporting his weight on his arms, and looked down at the author, who clutched his stomach as laughter continued to shake him.

“Ah . . .” Chittaphon sighed, looking up at Taeyong endearingly. “You’re so much fun when you stop giving a shit.”

“Thanks?” Taeyong chuckled, gazing down. It didn’t occur to him that, perhaps, he should stand and help Chittaphon up. No, for in that moment, he was trapped in the author’s eyes, which in that one rare instance were bright with life and seemed to reflect every colour.

Chittaphon’s smile faded and he looked at Taeyong with a raw, indescribable emotion. For a moment, he seemed to stay his tongue, but after a deep breath, he barely-audibly whispered, “I wish I could redo everything he did to you.”

Taeyong’s eyebrows raised and he tilted his head. “What . . . do you mean?” 

“If I could turn back time . . .” Chittaphon sighed wistfully. “I just . . . I want to be able to remove the damage he did to you. He took something away from you that you can’t get back, and while it is just a meaningless social construct, you didn’t consent . . . It was robbed from you.”

Taeyong shrugged nonchalantly, though there was a hurt behind his eyes. “If you think it’s your fault, it’s not. And there isn’t anything anyone can do about it now, so it’s best to just forget.”

Chittaphon sat up quickly and put a hand to Taeyong’s cheek. “I can’t . . . ! It burns me inside that he took advantage of you, took you for granted. He never deserved you, and . . . neither do I. You’re too good for—”

“Stop. Don’t continue that sentence,” Taeyong said gruffly. “Compliment me all you want but don’t put yourself down. You’ve made mistakes but you’re struggling because of . . . You’re not the only one who wishes they could rewrite the past. If I could go back . . .”

Chittaphon dropped his hand into his own lap and looked down with a disheartened chuckle. “You mean Soomi? Yeah. I guess we’re both lost in love. Other people suck, huh?”

Taeyong laughed dejectedly, a bitterness hidden behind his expression. “What did we do to deserve it?”

Chittaphon pulled Taeyong close again. “I’ve asked myself this question many times,” he said seriously, “but we didn’t do anything wrong. Especially not you. Xukun and Soomi . . . they’re just unreasonably awful people. If Xukun wasn’t gay, they’d be perfect for each other.”

“Maybe in another life, they’d have met and ruined each other, and left us alone,” Taeyong said with a sad smile. “Then maybe . . . you’d be able to kiss me . . .”

Chittaphon leaned in an inch, then held himself back. “I can kiss you, and by God I will . . . You’re supposed to stop me.”

“Right. I’m supposed to,” Taeyong whispered. Chittaphon drew in a sharp breath, a final attempt to steer himself away, before pulling Taeyong forward by his shirt and kissing him with all the might and need of a dehydrated animal drinking from a spring. Taeyong’s skin went white and heated up 200°, and he ran a hand along Chittaphon’s thigh as he dragged himself closer.

Breaking apart for only a moment, Chittaphon whispered against his lips, “Taeyongie . . . stop me . . .”

Taeyong ran a hand through Chittaphon’s hair, gripping it at the back, and growled, “No.”


	17. The Scent of Melting Candles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! It's been a while...
> 
> Don't worry, I haven't abandoned this story! I will always continue to update even if it takes me a while. The reception this story has gotten is INSANE! I'm so so so thankful for your continued support and I hope I keep living up to your expectations.
> 
> Some Notes:  
> ~ The "old wives' tale" that Ten refers to in this chapter is the belief in Korea that men who have big noses are also big somewhere else.  
> ~ I am not promoting unsafe sex! Be sure to always use a condom, use birth control to prevent pregnancy, and get regular check-ups to ensure you are safe and healthy.
> 
> I hope you are all having a lovely summer and I will try to update again as soon as I can, but alas I have a new job which will be taking up more of my time. Please, be patient ♡ I love you all.
> 
> Question! Out of all the 'Rune' novelette snippets we've seen throughout this story, which do you wish was a full book?  
> ~ "Don't Come Close to Me" (Donghae & Rowoon, seen in Chapter 1)  
> ~ "The Dancer" (Minhyuk & Seyoon, seen in Chapter 2)  
> ~ "In Words He Trusts" (Taehyun & Jaegi, seen in Chapter 5)  
> ~ "Love On the Course" (Jeongin & Ansel, seen in Chapter 9)
> 
> Enjoy this saucy chapter! (/◕ヮ◕)/

“Taeyongie . . . stop me . . .” 

“No,” he growled, gripping the back of Chittaphon’s hair. After all the time spent pining, chasing, only to have the author run away when the temperature rose above his comfort level, he would not lose this chance. Chittaphon quivered in his grasp, breathing irregular and hands sweaty, pressing his lips softly but desperately against Taeyong’s. Then, he pulled away, resting his forehead on Taeyong’s shoulder.

“I want to give back what he took,” Chittaphon breathed. “I want to show you how it’s done, do you right, make you feel good in a way you won’t regret.”

Taeyong laid himself down on his back and pulled Chittaphon by his shirt, so that the author had a knee on either side of Taeyong’s hips and a hand on either side of his head. Taeyong looked up, eyes big and deep, following every line of Chittaphon’s face with his gaze. He took a deep breath, whispering, “Then do it.”

For a moment, Chittaphon looked like he might refuse. A faraway look passed his expression and Taeyong could see the gears turning in his head, as he considered his options, and their respective consequences. Then, he stood up stiffly, putting out a hand to help Taeyong off the ground, then he took a few steps and turned off the stereo, facing the wall.

Taeyong approached him, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder. “Please,” he begged, quietly, “don’t push me away.”

Chittaphon was eerily still for a moment, before he suddenly grabbed Taeyong by the wrist and flung him against the wall. Taeyong stumbled, back hitting the plywood with a soft sound, and he was trapped there by Chittaphon’s arms around him, and by his body pressed against his front. Taeyong’s heart pounded against the beating of another, and he only just noticed how tight his jeans had become when he felt another erection twitch against his own.

“You should be pushing me away,” Chittaphon murmured against Taeyong’s neck, lips brushing against his skin, leaving butterfly kisses. Taeyong was shaking, breaths coming out in small, rapid puffs, taking fistfuls of Chittaphon’s blouse as if clinging for dear life.

“I can’t stop now, not when I’m like this,” Taeyong whimpered, back arching and going stiff as Chittaphon ground their hips together and that beautiful friction crept up his spine. Then, they were kissing again, sense lost in the whirlwind of feeling and pleasure, all their emotions bubbling over and pouring out, hot like candle wax and strong like black coffee. Between kisses, Chittaphon mumbled out a short phrase, word-by-word against Taeyong’s lips.

“Just . . . this . . . once . . .”

In that moment, Taeyong didn’t even care. He would savour this night like the world would end tomorrow. He pulled Chittaphon impossibly closer, rolling his hips to his rhythm, matching his kiss with all the tongue and teeth he could muster, desperation boiling like hot water on a stove top, coming off his body like steam from a kettle. Chittaphon’s hands were making a rat’s nest of Taeyong’s hair, fingers tugging and pulling and searching for a grip, and just when Taeyong thought he would die of asphyxiation, it was gone.

Chittaphon was pressing light, hot kisses up and down Taeyong’s neck, sucking and biting ever so slightly, tongue dabbing wet circles on his skin. Taeyong had never been so turned on in his life—his back was rigid and his legs had gone numb, his face was turned to the ceiling and his hands were roaming and grabbing everywhere they could. Every time he felt his soft skin pinched between Chittaphon’s teeth, he dug his nails into the author’s shoulders, the top of his head bumping against the wall, but he felt no pain.

Chittaphon was hard as a rock, throbbing restlessly against Taeyong’s thigh, but resisting any and all attempts at grinding, leaving Taeyong to pine helplessly. Without warning, Chittaphon lifted Taeyong off his feet and carried him out of the living room, down the dimly-lit hall, lips still ravaging Taeyong’s all the way to their destination.

Taeyong barely heard the door close, barely felt himself fall, until before he knew it he was landing among down throws and soft pillows. His body sank into the mattress and his limbs tangled in the covers. He realized he’d never been in Chittaphon’s room before—it was hard to see much, everything being shrouded in shadow. 

Until Chittaphon lit a match, proceeding to light several candles atop a dresser, illuminating the space in a pulsating glow and filling the room with the scents of fresh pine and woodland. Taeyong looked around at the, oddly, bamboo-themed bedroom. There were bamboo floors, a bamboo-wood bed frame, and even stalks of the plant growing out of a pot in the corner. The walls were a dark grey and the covers were black. The blinds were pure-white linen, allowing for natural light to filter in even when closed. Taeyong’s breath left him as he was pressed into a fluffy pillow and kissed hotly, passionately, a taste of sweet fire like cinnamon on his tongue. 

Chittaphon snaked his hands up Taeyong’s shirt, carefully dragging his nails in featherlight lines up and down his chest, making Taeyong shiver. Chittaphon gripped his waist and pulled him almost into his lap, then slowly wrapped his hands around Taeyong’s back and hoisted him up. Now straddling the author’s lap, Taeyong shyly ducked his head, playing with the hemline of Chittaphon’s shirt.

“Can I take this off?” Chittaphon asked, tugging on Taeyong’s top layer. After receiving a nod, he removed Taeyong’s sweater, followed by the white t-shirt underneath. Taeyong feebly crossed his arms over his chest, feeling exposed.

“Don’t be coy,” Chittaphon purred into his ear, pulling his hands away and holding them tightly. “You have nothing to be shy about. I want to see everything.”

“Me too,” Taeyong mumbled, fumbling with the buttons on Chittaphon’s blouse, eyes latching onto the new patches of exposed skin that slowly opened up. He had seen the author shirtless a fair number of times before; but never in this context, never in the orange glow of flickering fire, the twinkles of light reflecting in his dark eyes. Looking into them, they held a predatory gaze, like a hunter who’d found his prey.

Chittaphon took his hands off Taeyong just long enough to slip his expensive shirt off his shoulders and fling it to the floor as if it were nothing more than a piece of tattered cloth. He also took a moment to carefully remove each of the eleven pieces of jewellery adorning his ear piercings, a process that took longer than it should have given the darkness and the lack of a mirror. Taeyong sat patiently in his lap, watching his fingers make careful work of all the complicated clasps, setting each precious jewel on the nightstand. As he turned his head to get at the other ear, he revealed his stunning profile, made ever more striking by the angle at which the mellow light touched his face, and Taeyong itched at how long the pause had taken.

Finally, Chittaphon dropped the last earring on the nightstand, and immediately his hands were all over Taeyong once more. He dragged ringed fingers up sensitive skin, his head ducked and his lips tracing wet spots along Taeyong’s collarbone. Taeyong let his head drop back and his mouth fall open, heavy breaths coming out in pants, his neck widely exposed and vulnerable to Chittaphon’s ruthless attacks. Taeyong shivered as he felt nails dig into the plushy skin at his waist, pulling him in so their pelvic bones crushed together, bringing their erections in close quarters once more. 

“Ten . . . hyung . . . it hurts . . .” Taeyong whimpered, grinding his front against Chittaphon to indicate what he meant. His jeans were so infuriatingly cramped, his precious appendage feeling like it would pop under the pressure. Chittaphon’s straits were no better, the zipper of his skinny jeans already coming undone of its own accord and the button looking about ready to rip free of its denim captivity and fly across the room.

With a low growl escaping his throat, Chittaphon picked Taeyong up and threw him down on his back again, putting him at the full mercy of his hands. The author savagely bit and sucked red marks all the way down Taeyong’s front, fingers hooking under the waistline of his pants. Taeyong, though his hands were shaking, messed with his belt until he somehow managed to get it undone, giving Chittaphon free reign to pull the button open and undo the zipper with his teeth. 

“Lift your butt,” Chittaphon whispered, tugging at Taeyong’s pants until he did as he was told and they could be slid off. Taeyong felt that dizzying relief as his hard-on was freed, jeans being pulled off leg by leg. Chittaphon threw them to the floor and latched onto the promising bulge in Taeyong’s briefs with a grin, slinking between his bent knees to place more gentle kisses at his collarbone.

Taeyong couldn’t help but let out small sounds as Chittaphon’s hand made slow and tantalizing work of his quaking heat, stroking lazily, squeezing gently and releasing, his mouth sucking sweet Heaven into his neck. He moved downward slowly, tongue-tip trailing down Taeyong’s chest, hand rolling up his shaft to apply pressure to the very top. 

It was all too much, and Taeyong saw white when he felt a cold and wet sensation caress his nipple—his back arched involuntarily and his hands flew up to grasp whatever they could, which turned out to be Chittaphon’s hair. The author was drawing evil little circles with his tongue and applying the perfect level of soft suction with his lips, offering a feeling Taeyong had never experienced before. Unable to hold back, overwhelmed by the sensations, Taeyong bit his lip and let out quiet whimpers and mewls, eyes squeezing shut and hips moving into Chittaphon’s hand, endlessly chasing more.

“Sensitive, are we?” Chittaphon teased, smirking as he sat back and admired his handiwork. Taeyong’s nipples had become hard and perky, and a significant wet spot had accumulated close to the waistband of his briefs. He was red all over, ruddy on the cheeks and teary in the eyes, lip bruised from being bitten so harshly. Even so, there was an exhilaration in his eyes and a bottomless plea for more, eyebrows ruffled and pupils blown, breathing still ragged and hard. “What shall I do next?” the author asked calmly, trailing his fingertips across Taeyong’s stomach.

“Please . . .” Taeyong mewled, voice higher than normal, and even he was surprised at how quickly he’d become such a mess. “I want to . . . I need to . . . Hyung, please, make me . . . Please . . .”

Chittaphon’s eyes flickered before he suddenly winced in discomfort, hand grasping his crotch as he bent over slightly. Blinking through his ordeal, he rushed to undo his jeans and pull them off, sighing in relief as his confined member was finally freed. With that out of the way, he fixed his attention on Taeyong’s briefs, taking them by the waistband and ripping them off in one fell swoop, tossing them to the floor and revealing Taeyong to the steamy air.

“Ah . . .” Taeyong mumbled, covering himself in embarrassment. He still wasn’t used to being feasted on by another’s eyes, and even though he certainly desired to be touched, he couldn’t help curling in on himself when his shyness got the better of him.

“Stop it,” Chittaphon said gently, pushing Taeyong’s knees apart. He gave Taeyong an exasperated look, then pulled back and quickly removed his own briefs and flung them to the floor. “There. Now we’re both naked. Better?”

Taeyong’s eyes immediately dropped to the sight he was most intrigued to see, and he forgot all about his own exposure. Never, in his life, would he ever have thought to describe any kind of genitalia as ‘pretty,’ but Chittaphon’s manhood was certainly an unexpected exception. Unable to help himself, Taeyong sat up and reached out, wrapping his hand around it so it rested in his palm. Chittaphon let out a pleased breath as he bent forward to kiss Taeyong’s neck, but Taeyong could do nothing but stare. Literally in the palm of his hand was something he’d dreamed off and sought after so fervently for a long time, and it easily exceeded his every expectation.

“Like what you see?” Chittaphon asked playfully, then gently bit the lobe of Taeyong’s ear. “Do whatever you like. Just . . . don’t make me come yet. There’s so much I want to do to you first.”

Taeyong shivered at the aggressive twitch that writhed in his hand. He observed the appendage more, unable to take his eyes away. It was a decent length, wonderfully thick but not so much it posed a threat, and had a good heft and slight curvature. Chittaphon, ever a man of poise, kept himself clean-shaven and smooth all over, and this area was no different. Taeyong wrapped his fingers delicately around the circumference and stroked, pulse beating strongly at the quiver that spread across Chittaphon’s body. For the first time, he felt a sense of power that surged in his nether regions, and he quickly decided that he liked it—a lot.

Chittaphon leaned over and rummaged around in his nightstand, pulling out a few ‘supplies’ that Taeyong couldn’t quite see. The author straightened and pushed Taeyong down, out of reach so his hand slipped off his length, and revealed a bottle of clear liquid. 

“You said you would like to be prepared,” Chittaphon said, with a wink. He slinked forward, between Taeyong’s bent legs, and left a sweet kiss on his inner thigh. “Tell me . . . How many times have you touched . . . here?”

Taeyong jumped and let out a small squeak as Chittaphon pressed his middle finger flush against his entrance, indicating his meaning. Taeyong’s breath quickened and his mind spun with predictions of what was to come; and the lustful look in Chittaphon’s eyes was one to get lost in.

“Only . . . once,” Taeyong admitted. “With Xukun. I know he penetrated me but I don’t remember any of it. So, I suppose you could call this my first time.”

Chittaphon’s eyes widened, then he squinted suspiciously. “Taeyongie . . . no lying, now. You’re twenty-two and have little sexual experience. You must have . . . you know, gotten curious by yourself once or twice?”

Taeyong gulped and flushed at the idea. “I’ve . . . thought about it,” he mumbled, “but I never got the courage to do it. So, no, I haven’t . . . um . . . fingered . . . myself.”

Chittaphon smirked devilishly. “Then it’s up to me to show you the ropes. I’ll be gentle, but you’ll have to relax. May I?”

With a moment’s hesitation, Taeyong nodded, spreading his knees apart daintily and giving himself fully to Chittaphon. The author popped the cap off the bottle and squeezed some of the watery fluid right onto Taeyong’s hole, causing him to flinch at the sudden foreign and cold sensation. Then, Chittaphon straightened and flipped his hair out of his eyes, and proceeded to slowly, one by one, remove every ring from both of his hands, letting the pieces join the earrings on the nightstand.

Taeyong let his eyes close fearfully, nervous at what was about to happen. Something prodded at his mouth, and he peeked open an eye to see what it was. Chittaphon was pressing two fingers to Taeyong’s lips, and with a voice laced with sex, he grunted, “Suck.”

Obediently, Taeyong did, allowing the short appendages to enter his mouth and dutifully slathering them with spit. They tasted of pen ink, hours-old finger-food, and faintly of copper. Chittaphon removed them slowly, drawing them out from Taeyong’s pretty lips, eyes devouring every bit of the sight. Then, he poured a generous amount of lubricant on them and mixed it with Taeyong’s saliva.

“If you were just going to use that fluid, what was the point of all that?” Taeyong asked sarcastically.

“You look hot,” Chittaphon said honestly. “Besides . . . with that experience firmly saved in the ‘spank bank,’ it makes it easier to imagine what it would feel like if that was my dick, instead.”

Taeyong mouth went dry as he thought of that, too. He imagined being knelt before the author, a hand on either one of his knees, mouth stretched around his ample thickness, tongue swirling and lapping every inch. Chittaphon would watch him intently, those dark eyes filled with pleasure, a hand stroking Taeyong’s hair. He would not hold back words of praise, telling Taeyong how good he is and how well he’s doing . . . The image sent shivers up and down his spine.

Quickly, his mind went blank, though, as Chittaphon pressed his slick middle finger against Taeyong’s entrance once more, drawing circles around the ring of muscle, eyes scanning all of his body as if he could taste it. Slowly, he let his fingertip grace the hole, and very gently applied pressure.

“Relax,” Chittaphon whispered, voice honeylike, as Taeyong began to squirm. “Breathe. Tell me if it hurts.”

Taeyong took deep breaths as Chittaphon’s finger delved ever deeper inside him. It felt strange and a small bit gross, but even so a hot pool of pleasure collected in his abdomen and his erection twitched. He shivered, closed his eyes, let himself feel the entirely new sensations and revel in every bit of the experience.

“How is it?” Chittaphon’s voice broke the silence. Taeyong opened his eyes and looked at him, in the dim candlelight, and felt himself clench around the intrusion.

“It feels . . . weird,” he concluded, biting his tender bottom lip. “Good weird. Keep going.”

“Bear with me,” Chittaphon asked tenderly. “I’ll find the good spot soon. Just try to relax for a moment, it’ll feel better, I promise.”

Taeyong breathed deeply and relaxed his abdominal muscles. “Ten,” he whispered, “have you ever . . . been the ‘bottom’?”

“I have,” Chittaphon answered truthfully, “in the past. I much prefer to top, though.”

“What does it feel like?” Taeyong wondered apprehensively.

“It feels . . . well, like this.”

Chittaphon’s finger bent upwards, pressing into a tangle of nerves, and Taeyong’s whole body stiffened. Shockwaves traveled up his spine, that pool of warmth getting hotter, a thousand new feelings spreading over his skin, permeating his flesh. His dick quivered madly and a shocked moan escaped his throat, so he covered his mouth in embarrassment.

“Found it,” Chittaphon sang evilly, crouching over Taeyong’s form and beginning to twist his finger in and out, pressing savagely against that spot each time. Taeyong saw stars, neck craning and head pressed into the pillows, back arching and hands gripping fistfuls of down throws and tugging them subconsciously. Without warning, Chittaphon slipped a second finger in, scissoring them and stretching Taeyong’s muscle, working his hand fast and rough, twisting and turning expertly. He bent down to suck more red marks into Taeyong’s shoulders and neck, until tears were falling down Taeyong’s cheeks and desperate cries and unintelligible mewls were falling out of his mouth at a constant speed.

“Oh God . . . Oh God . . . !” Taeyong panted loudly, writhing and squirming as he fought to handle the immense pleasure. “I can’t . . . Oh, God, hyung . . . Ah . . . ! It feels so good!”

“Are you close?” Chittaphon droned into his ear, voice hoarse and sexy with lust.

“Yes!” Taeyong cried out, feet kicking, body hot and plastered with sweat. “Ten, oh God I’m so . . . I can’t take it . . . Hyung, please, fuck me . . . I need it . . . Need . . . you . . .”

Chittaphon wrenched his fingers out forcefully, chest heaving and breath coming out his nostrils like a riled bull. He bent forward again and grabbed something else off the nightstand—a small, square piece of plastic, ridged on two edges, that made a loud crinkly sound in Chittaphon’s hands. He grabbed a corner of it between his teeth and ripped the small package open, spitting out the plastic piece onto the floor.

Taeyong put his hands on his wrists to stop him. “No,” he murmured, “I said you don’t need to . . . Xukun used one, so I’m still clean.”

Chittaphon’s member twitched fervently, the tip grazing Taeyong’s inner thigh. “Are you sure? I may not be able to pull out before . . .”

“I’m a man. I won’t get pregnant,” Taeyong scoffed incredulously.

“Right. Of course,” Chittaphon in a tone that sounded like he was reminding himself. He tossed the condom away and took the bottle of liquid once more, popping the cap off, quivering with excitement. Then, he paused.

“Would you . . . care to do the honours?” he asked, sensually, handing the bottle over.

Taeyong sat up quickly, panting, still coming down off the intense pleasure he’d experienced and gearing himself up for more. He took the bottle and wasted no time pouring a lavish amount along Chittaphon’s shaft, proceeding then to rub it carefully until the whole appendage was slick with the substance. Chittaphon pushed Taeyong down again and applied more lube to his entrance, for good measure, then discarded the bottle and stooped over Taeyong’s body possessively.

“Now you really have to relax,” he warned gently, positioning himself. The act was crass and not very graceful, but within moments he was pressing slowly forward, Taeyong’s muscles giving way and stretching a surprising amount, until Chittaphon no longer needed his hand and could simply push.

The stretch burned, his insides clamping down on the intruder despite his efforts to slacken them. He winced, clenched his jaw through the searing pain, breathing in and out like a ritual until the ache began to ebb. Chittaphon’s head hung, his hair shielding his face, his arms quaking as air was pushed hotly from between his lips.

“Are you okay?” Taeyong asked quietly.

Chittaphon’s head snapped up. His eyes were wild with pleasure and his cheeks were an angry red. He grabbed Taeyong’s hips more fiercely and drove himself deeper inside, forcing a small yelp from Taeyong.

“I’m more than ‘okay,’” he growled, rolling his hips, grinding the tip of his length against that glorious spot, making Taeyong moan inwardly and toss his head. “God, fuck, you’re so tight . . . How am I supposed to hold back?”

“Don’t,” Taeyong immediately shook his head. “Just . . . God, I love it . . .”

Chittaphon stooped low and kissed Taeyong passionately, pressing himself deeper, harder, holding Taeyong like the world was ending. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said quietly.

“You won’t. It doesn’t hurt anymore,” Taeyong promised. “Please, it feels so good, I want . . . more . . .”

Chittaphon pulled his hips back and thrust them forward without warning, and Taeyong’s words dissolved in a hot moan, bottom lip clasped in his teeth. Chittaphon kissed his lips free, slowly moving his hips back and forth, pulling out only an inch before pressing roughly back in, groaning at the tight squeeze.

“Don’t hold it in,” he demanded, kissing down Taeyong’s jawline. “I want to hear you . . . I want to hear the sounds you make when I fuck you. This is the only time I’ll get to.”

Taeyong obliged, finding he couldn’t help but moan wantonly and let out choked mewls with every thrust, as they repeatedly got harsher and harsher, more length being pulled out each time and pushed back in, always with more force than before. Taeyong grabbed fistfuls of Chittaphon’s hair and held on for dear life, eyes squeezed shut and mouth open in a permanent ‘O’ shape, outward obscene sounds coming out of his throat, unstoppable and high-pitched. Chittaphon was making hot noises too, low grunts and soft groans spilling into Taeyong’s ear, his thrusts becoming more erratic and his grip getting stronger.

“Ah . . . Fuck, oh—!” Taeyong could barely speak, words losing their footing in his mouth and breaking apart into the steaming room, jumbled and rattled by the sway of his entire body as he moved with Chittaphon. He felt completely numb and overrun with sensation at the same time, mind blank, sense lost in the unimaginable stimuli. “More . . . Ahn—! Hyung, more, please, more, ng—! Harder, please, fuck, oh—! I want to come . . . Please, make me come . . . Please . . . !”

Chittaphon straightened up a little bit and quickened his pace, his head lolling back as he relished in the feeling, a sexy groan escaping his throat, candlelight flickering against the sheen of sweat on his front. He looked back at Taeyong, his gaze changed from predatory to desperate, from hungry to listless, as he, too, was lost in the heat of it all. 

Taeyong felt rigid once more, the pool of warmth in his stomach crawling quickly up the length of his steel-pipe dick. “Ten, hyung, Ten, I—hah—I’m so close I—hng—I can’t, I have to—!”

With one final slam against his sweet spot, he was coming, unraveled from the knot that had been building up for weeks, the pool of heat spilling forth in the form of white, sticky, salty, liquid pleasure. As the mess splattered up his chest, thicker and much more abundant than ever before, Chittaphon’s breath hitched and his rhythm faltered—he wasn’t far behind.

“Oh God . . . Oh God— Oh God—!” Chittaphon chanted, moving impossibly faster and breathing raggedly. “Me too! Taeyong-ah, I’m sorry, I can’t, I’m going to—!”

Suddenly, Chittaphon went still, cursing quietly in his own language, but inside of Taeyong was an explosion—a wild twitching and a splash of heat, pumping forth like water from a wayward hose, flowing deep within, followed by a low moan from above as Chittaphon’s eyes rolled back into his head and he went lax. 

“Oh, fuck, I can feel it—!” Taeyong choked out, still stiff as a board and clutching the sheets. Chittaphon’s body shook before he went limp and his head drooped, chest heaving with every hard breath. Slowly, he pulled himself away, rolling onto his back, a mound of hot skin and sweat. They looked at each other, and Taeyong saw exhausted exhilaration in Chittaphon’s eyes, accompanying the goofy smile on his face.

“I’ll go . . . wash up . . . first,” Chittaphon said between pants, hoisting himself onto his elbows and climbing over Taeyong, grunting like it took him great effort. He collected fresh briefs from a drawer and padded softly across the floor, his silhouette exiting the room and disappearing into the hall. Taeyong never saw him return, because he was fast asleep in a tangle of pillows and throws by the time he tiptoed back into the room.

***

Birds chirped noisily, disrupting Taeyong’s fervent dreams. He stirred, kicking up a mass of blankets and stretching out his weak limbs. He peeked open an eye, early-morning sunlight pouring through the linen curtains and pooling on the bamboo floorboards, livening the foreign space. It smelled faintly of scented candles, long since burnt out, and strongly of Chittaphon. Startlingly, Taeyong remembered where he was.

He turned to his left, putting out a hand to feel the cold, dented space there. Someone had slept beside him, but had left some time ago, and now he was alone. Chittaphon was nowhere to be seen, and a deep sense of worry and suspicion crept into Taeyong’s heart. Had he been abandoned? Should he be expecting a PayPal?

Ungracefully, he sat up straight and inspected his surroundings. Both their clothes from the night before were still strewn haphazardly around the floor, his underwear and jeans mingled with Chittaphon’s blouse. He ran a hand up his own chest, disturbed to find flakes of dried fluid—with a grimace, he discovered the same could be found caked around his nethers, as well. Naturally, as he had not washed it off before falling asleep. Rookie mistake.

Nevertheless, he stepped out of the empty bed and went through Chittaphon’s drawers to find a pair of pajama pants—surely he wouldn’t mind, right? He pulled them over his naked legs and moved on out into the hall, peeking around for signs of life. Aside from Khon Dii dozing in the middle of the walkway, all was silent.

As he neared the kitchen, he could hear a faint sizzling. Rounding the corner, he found Chittaphon standing in front of the stove in nothing but sweatpants and a towel around his shoulders, frying an egg on a pan with tired diligence. He looked up in surprise at Taeyong’s arrival, eyes heavily bagged but bright and sunny all the same.

“Darn, what are you doing awake?” Chittaphon pouted, looking down sadly at his egg. “I was going to surprise you with breakfast. Go back to bed.”

Taeyong’s heart warmed, and he couldn’t suppress a smile. “Sorry, I woke up . . . I thought you’d gone and left, so I was afraid for a moment and came looking.”

Chittaphon looked concerned, abandoning his egg in favour of approaching Taeyong with the aim of embracing him in a hug. Taeyong stopped him, warding him back with the warning, “I wouldn’t do that. I’m all sticky.”

Chittaphon remained a step away. “After a night like that, I wouldn’t just leave. I’m not that cruel. Besides, that was . . .”

Taeyong exhaled heavily, recalling the hot night of passion that had unfolded the night before. He was aching in places he didn’t even know could ache, and his skin had become the graveyard of about a billion unborn babies, but even so he felt a glowing sensation in his chest. Much unlike the crushing defeat he felt following his night with Cai Xukun, this time he had a sentiment of satisfaction, and when he looked into Chittaphon’s eyes, he knew they shared the same reminiscence of their time together.

“Okay, how about this,” Chittaphon mused, trailing gentle fingertips up and down Taeyong’s bicep, “you go take a shower, wash off all that . . . gunk, and when you’re all nice and clean there’ll be breakfast ready for you.”

Taeyong smiled sweetly. “Is this treatment available to all your bottoms?”

Chittaphon looked him up and down. “‘All my bottoms’? You know my situation.”

“Just checking,” Taeyong said cheekily. Of course he remembered that, because of the damage caused by Soomi, Chittaphon hadn’t had a sexual partner in over a year. With a final, relieved sigh, he trudged back down the hall to Chittaphon’s bathroom, where fresh towels had already been laid out in advance. Shutting the door, Taeyong remarked he couldn’t get service like this in a five-star hotel.

Once he was washed and dried—and had successfully removed all leftover ‘frosting’ from the night before—he returned to the bedroom to find Chittaphon sitting cross-legged on his bed, scrolling through his phone and enjoying a half-finished bowl of what Taeyong could assume was some kind of traditional Thai breakfast consisting of a fried egg and sausages on rice. As soon as Chittaphon saw him enter, he dropped his phone and invited Taeyong to take a seat next to him.

“All clean?” he asked, passing Taeyong his own bowl of breakfast-rice. 

“Yes, thankfully,” Taeyong giggled, “that was gross.”

Chittaphon smiled warmly. “I wanted to wake you up so you could wash off, but seeing you curled up in my pillows and sheets was too precious to disturb.”

Taeyong looked down shyly, digging into his breakfast. He quickly realized that sex really does burn calories, as he felt hungrier than he had in a long time, drained of energy after all the exercise. Chittaphon set his bowl down and watched Taeyong tenderly, until his breakfast had been completely scarfed down, reduced to crumbs. 

“That was really good,” Taeyong sighed contentedly, patting his belly. “I feel even more full than I was last night.”

Chittaphon, who’d begun sipping from a glass of juice, promptly choked on the liquid as soon as he understood what Taeyong had said. Taeyong smirked cheekily at Chittaphon, who looked back at him with a dazed and bewildered expression. Then, he straightened, regained his composure, and set his glass on the nightstand.

“You better watch your mouth,” he warned sensually, inching closer to Taeyong. “Talking like that . . . You’ll make me prideful.”

Taeyong slinked closer to him and intertwined their fingers. “You should be. You’re definitely not ‘small.’ You have a pretty big nose, after all.”

Chittaphon leaned back and rolled his eyes with a disbelieving smirk. “You really believe that old wives’ tale?”

“I do now,” Taeyong purred.

“Enough, don’t get me all riled up,” Chittaphon breathed roughly. “As much as I’d gladly flip you over and take you again, work starts in thirty minutes.”

And so Taeyong had no choice but to back away and tuck his semi into last night’s jeans. He had no change of clothes and no time to get any, but the only person who’d seen him in that outfit was Chittaphon, so it was basically a fresh look.

They piled into separate cars—Chittaphon in his gorgeous white Bentley and Taeyong trailing behind in his sad navy Camry—and drove to the publishing house. When they arrived, there was, strangely, already five people in the workroom. Yuta and Taeil were bent over the photocopier, hitting it to try and make it work, Mark was sorely trying to ignore all their noise, and Johnny was sitting next to a pretty woman with long brown hair and looked to be explaining something.

“Oh, you brought Minsoo to work today?” Chittaphon asked as they entered. “Spent the night together, did you?”

Johnny looked up from the papers he was discussing and donned a sheepishly sly look. “Hey, keep it down,” he murmured. “I thought it’d be fun if she could see what I do.”

“Did you ask the director’s permission?” Chittaphon asked, with a face and tone like he already knew the answer.

“Well . . . What the director doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” Johnny concluded.

Minsoo jumped up from her seat and came trotting over to the newly-arrived pair. “Hey, Ten-oppa,” she said sweetly, tucking her hair behind her ear. Taeyong narrowed his eyes—‘oppa’? Were they that close already?

Chittaphon didn’t seem bothered. “Good morning,” he said easily, “how are you liking the workplace?”

“Oh, it’s very nice,” she said wistfully. “Youngho is so lucky, to work in a place like this and to edit for you . . . I’m jealous. I’m a barista in a shabby old coffee shop.”

“Hey, now, it’s a nice coffee shop,” Johnny said, coming up beside her and holding her hand, “and you make an excellent brew. Besides, I don’t exactly edit for Ten-ssi. That’s mostly Taeyong’s job.”

Minsoo shook her hand free of Johnny’s and pushed it through her hair, sighing. “Then Taeyong-ssi is the lucky one. I bet you’ve been to his house and worked on his famous novels? That would be such an amazing experience . . .”

Chittaphon chuckled gently. “Eh, it’s mostly boring grunt work. Nothing really ‘exciting’ ever happens. Just adding stuff in and taking stuff out. It’s tiring.”

Taeyong grinned momentarily at the possible euphemism but stifled his expression quickly. Johnny nudged Minsoo aside so Taeyong and Chittaphon could sit down, and the author wasted no time spreading all his notes out on the table. Minsoo gazed at them, dazzled. 

“Sorry, no peeking,” Chittaphon covered all the papers with his body, “can’t risk any spoilers getting leaked. It’s not that I don’t trust you, don’t take it personally.” 

As Minsoo began to pout, Johnny got up and pulled Taeyong away. Confused, Taeyong looked at Johnny with furrowed brows as he was backed into the corner of the room.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I want to talk to you about something,” Johnny said, hushed and concerned. “You know how Ten-ssi alluded that Minsoo and I spent the night together? Well . . . we didn’t. And we’ve yet to. She seemed interested at first, but now she deflects all attempts at sleeping together. Should I be worried?”

Taeyong bit his lip nervously. Johnny, for some reason, had always come to him for relationship advice, and despite his endeavors always ending in failure, he trusted Taeyong’s word every time. His response would therefore hold a lot of weight.

“Um . . . I don’t think so. Perhaps she’s just not ready? It’s possible she’s the type to want to wait until she’s well into a relationship,” Taeyong concluded slowly. Upon seeing Johnny’s unsure expression, he added, “That’s a good thing! It means she’s planning to go long-term.”

Johnny’s shoulders relaxed and he brightened a little. “Thanks, Taeyongie. I feel better. Even though she’s pretty obsessed with Ten-ssi, and that’s a small bit annoying, I think we’ll last.”

“Speaking of,” Taeyong arched a brow and studied the room, “where did they go?”

Johnny turned and regarded the room as well. Chittaphon’s notes remained abandoned on the table, but he and Minsoo had suspiciously disappeared.

“Yuta-ssi,” Taeyong beckoned him, who was still crouched over the photocopier, “did you see where Ten-hyung went?”

Yuta shrugged. “He went to get tea from the break lounge, and Minsoo followed him out. I think she wanted a snack or something.”

Johnny and Taeyong exchanged a glance. “You stay here,” Taeyong instructed, “I’ll go find them.”

“Why can’t I go?” Johnny asked, defensively.

“I don’t know what we’d find,” Taeyong said, eyes downcast, leaving out the details. “It’s best you stay back.”

“Don’t hide anything from me,” Johnny warned, and Taeyong nodded, wordlessly promising.

Taeyong quickly left the workroom and darted through the halls to the break lounge. There, he saw Taemin from HR chatting with Jongin from IT beside the vending machine, two ladies discussing idle workplace gossip at one of the tables, and the missing pair by the coffee machine and stacks of tea bags. Chittaphon was looking into a mug of steaming liquid, bobbing a green-tea bag up and down in the cup, and Minsoo was seated on the counter beside him, talking his ear off.

“Hey, I wondered where you guys got off to,” Taeyong said coolly as he approached. Minsoo quieted down when he got closer, looking at him with a level expression. “Minsoo-ssi, your boyfriend is back in the workroom. He wants you to stay there so to not risk the director finding you. Do you mind?”

For a moment, she hesitated. Then, she hopped off the counter and smiled gleefully at Chittaphon. “Not at all. I guess I’ll see Ten-oppa back at the workroom?”

“Sure,” Chittaphon mumbled.

She walked breezily past, face neutrally happy, until she gave Taeyong a cold glare. In a split second, though, it was gone, and she was skipping out of the workroom, leaving Taeyong to wonder if he was seeing things.

“What were you talking about?” Taeyong asked calmly once she’d gone.

“No idea.” Chittaphon sipped his tea. “She blabbers a lot. I stopped paying attention.”

Taeyong hummed. “Does anything seem . . . off about her, to you?”

“No,” Chittaphon shrugged, “she’s just another excited fan with opportunity. Eventually, the novelty of her boyfriend working with me will wear off.”

Taeyong gulped. “Then what happens?”

Chittaphon looked listlessly at the door she’d left through. “I suppose we’ll find out.”

The rest of the work day passed without incident. Minsoo stuck by Johnny’s side, and the two left together when the time came to clock out. Taeyong was itching to tell someone about his exciting night, and beckoned Yuta over as he was packing his bag to leave.

“Would you like to go for coffee?” Taeyong asked. “There’s something I’m just dying to tell you!”

Yuta smiled weakly. “That sounds great, Taeyong. I’d love to.”

The two traveled to a coffee shop a decent distance away—not as close as the one Minsoo worked at, yet not as far as Dal.Komm. Yuta ordered a mocha and Taeyong stuck with a latte, and they sat at a nice table by the window, bathed in the orange light of the evening sun.

“So, what’s up?” Yuta asked, oddly patient. He seemed a little distant, fiddling with the handle of his mug, eyes darting left and right. Nonetheless, Taeyong leaned across the table excitedly.

“Me and Ten-hyung . . . we did it!” he whispered giddily. “Like, actually did it!”

Yuta’s eyes widened. “You had sex?”

“Yes!” Taeyong squeaked. “We were at his place to work, one thing led to another, and . . .”

Yuta took a long sip of his mocha, eyes pointed at Taeyong in interest but somehow distant. He set his cup down and forced a small smile. “I’m happy for you. How was it?”

Taeyong laid his head down on the table and sighed wistfully, batting his eyelashes. “Oh . . . Yuta, it was fantastic. I’ve never felt more alive! He knew all the good spots, and he was so kind and gentle, and he even made breakfast! I’m just . . . trying to get used to the fact that we promised we’d only do it once. I don’t know if I can live with that.”

Only when he’d stopped talking did he take a proper look at Yuta. His friend was wearing a dirty sweatshirt, unwashed jeans, and old sneakers; his hair had not been done and still held knots from a night of tossing and turning, and his face was weirdly pale. He’d had little reaction to Taeyong’s story, and had barely touched his coffee.

“Yuta-ssi . . . Is something wrong? Sorry, it’s just . . . I thought you’d be more excited,” Taeyong mumbled, a little bummed that he had not gotten the reaction he was hoping for. He’d thought, if anyone would want to know about his and Chittaphon’s adventures, it would be Yuta.

“Sorry, Taeyong, I really am happy for you. It’s just . . .” Yuta let out a long sigh, his shoulders drooping. He looked out the window, his eyes hazy, light reflecting off the tears that began to build. “Sicheng went back to China for a few days, and he . . . His parents . . . They . . . They found out. About me. About us. And now they . . . They won’t let him come back to Korea!”

Taeyong’s heart faltered in its rhythm. He knew, from his experiences with Xukun and his general knowledge of queer rights, that China was not a good place to be gay. Thoughts piled up about what could possibly happen to Sicheng there. He could be beaten, disowned, sent to ‘conversion therapy,’ or worse, forced into an arranged marriage. Whatever becomes of him, it won’t be good.

“Oh, Yuta, that’s awful,” Taeyong said quietly, his chest clenching. “I can’t imagine what you must be feeling. What can we do?”

Yuta shook his head, tears beginning to fall down his cheeks. “There’s nothing we can do. He’s cut all contact with me, probably against his will, and nobody can get ahold of him. I certainly can’t afford a round-trip to China to get him, and he would never think to run away by himself . . . He’s trapped there. I can’t stop thinking about what horrible things might be happening to him.”

Taeyong got up and took Yuta in a tight hug, as the Japanese man began to sob outwardly, face buried in Taeyong’s shoulder. Despite all the wonderful things that had transpired, none of it mattered—all Taeyong could think and feel was the dread and horror that had befallen Yuta, and likely Sicheng, too. His mind was running with possible solutions, but all came up blank. The only person who could afford a trip to China was Chittaphon, but he’s far too busy and wouldn’t be able to communicate there, anyway.

“I’m sure he’ll be okay. He’ll find a way back. Everything will turn out alright,” Taeyong said soothingly, stroking Yuta’s back, ignoring the concerned looks they were getting from strangers. “Go home, get some sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning. We’ll think of something, I promise.”

Taeyong watched Yuta slowly wipe his tears and pack up with a heavy heart. They parted ways in silence, and Taeyong felt his eyes sting as he was close to tears himself. Sicheng had been a valued friend of his for years, and he could only imagine the kind of pain the poor boy was going through.

Taeyong trudged with his head low along the busy sidewalks of Seoul. He was headed in the direction of home, but was not in any kind of rush. His whole body felt like it was filled with lead, carrying a thousand pounds’ worth of heft that had not been there before. Sicheng had left for China only very recently, and nobody had predicted anything like this.

“Whoa there!” 

Someone shouted out as Taeyong’s shoulder collided with them. He was ripped out of his thoughts as shopping bags fell to the ground one by one, and a tall figure stumbled back after the impact. He looked up, eyes wild, and froze as soon as he saw who it was.

“Geez, watch where you’re— Oh, it’s you. Crazy, running into you again, like this.”

He was distinctly Chinese, statured, carried himself like someone important. He was dressed to impress, in good jeans, a t-shirt, and an expensive jacket. His eyes were large and his lips puckered. Taeyong suddenly tasted champagne in his mouth.

“Hi . . . Xukun,” Taeyong said slowly, too dazed to react and too heavy to run.

“I . . . don’t know what to say,” Xukun mumbled, eyes downcast. “I can’t express how sorry I am. I treated you so horribly, then I got drunk and chased you down . . . I’m actually glad your friend came and beat me up. I deserved it. Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”

Taeyong was not immediately swayed by his words. He set his jaw, furrowed his brow, and stared coldly back at Xukun. “No. There’s nothing I want from you. I’ve stopped thinking about it, and I . . . I have a boyfriend, now. A real one. Who loves me.”

Xukun smiled warmly, but he looked so incredibly sad it was almost moving. “I’m happy you found someone who treats you properly. I’ve reflected on my actions and realized my mistakes. I won’t bother you again, but if there’s ever anything you need . . .”

“No, there’s—” Taeyong stopped. An idea clicked, a lightbulb flashing in his head. It was crazy, and a lot to ask, but if Xukun is sincere and would really do anything . . . He’s Chinese, rich, and fairly free—if the numerous shopping bags are any hint. Taeyong gulped.

“Actually . . . There is something you can do. It’s a huge favour, but it would mean so much to me and my friends,” he explained, heart racing. “I know someone. He means a lot to me and even more to someone else. If you’ll really do anything, then I beg you—please, do this.”


	18. The Scent of Betrayal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!
> 
> Wow, so this is an intense chapter, I hope you're ready!
> 
> I don't know where this burst of writing energy came from, but I was somehow able to write this very quickly... Let's hope this keeps up!
> 
> Anyway, I have to be up early tomorrow for work and I've already stayed up far too late, so without further ado, enjoy the chapter!!
> 
> Also, where did all my comments go? Keep it up guys, I read all of them and I love hearing from you!
> 
> Enjoy (/◕ヮ◕)/

Taeyong held tightly to the hand at his right. The person attached to it was shaking with worry and anticipation, feet dancing on the floor and knees bobbing uncontrollably. They sat upon barely-cushioned chairs in the huge lobby of the Incheon International Airport, all white slate and glass ceilings towering above. Commuters dashed to and fro, chasing flights and hailing taxis, greeting family members and saying their farewells. A feminine, standard voice over the intercom made an announcement as the words flashed on screens: 도착 중: 온주 중국에서 # 356 비행 (Arriving: Flight # 356 from Wenzhou, China).

Mark was pacing back and forth, arms crossed fearfully over his chest, face screwed up in paranoid thought. “We can’t trust him! What if he’s not even on that plane? What if he kidnapped Sicheng? What if—”

“Mark, can it, would you?” Johnny snapped from his place at Taeyong’s left. Mark glanced at Yuta, whose hands were clasped tightly in Taeyong’s, to his left, and Taeil’s, to his right. Yuta was quivering like an earthquake, eyes trained straight ahead but looking at nothing, jaw locked tightly and teeth grinding. It was like he’d seen a ghost.

Taeil turned to his left. “There’s nothing to worry about, Yuta-yah. Mark is just ranting. Sicheng is absolutely fine, he’ll be out in a few moments. Hang in there.”

Chittaphon was sitting with one leg crossed over the other on the opposite side of Johnny. He was looking at the floor, deep in thought, while absentmindedly picking dirt from underneath his manicured nails. Mark began pacing again, unable to stand still.

Across the aisle sat Jaehyun, Lucas, Doyoung, Jungwoo, and Haechan in a row. Jaemin, Jeno, Jisung, and Chenle were sitting cross-legged on the linoleum floor, looking distant and afraid. Renjun and Kun were some space away from the rest of the group, scouting for any sign of their expected arrivals.

“We’ve been here for hours,” said Mark, irritably, “and there’s still no sign of them. That was the last flight from Wenzhou for today. If they didn’t get on that plane . . .”

Yuta made a choked sound and tears began to stream down his cheeks, shoulders rocking and head drooping, hair falling into his eyes. Taeil pulled him into a gentle, sideways hug.

“Mark, I said shut it!” Johnny barked angrily, spooking Mark into silence. He then softened and turned to Yuta. “It’ll be alright. If they missed the flight—which is a perfectly logical and possible thing to happen—they’ll probably just hole up in a hotel somewhere until tomorrow. Wherever they are, I’m certain they’re safe.”

Minutes passed, dragging on, slow as quicksand. More and more passengers poured into the lobby, recently departed from the plane, beelining for the taxis and buses parked outside. Yuta cried increasingly harder as time went on, losing his ability to hold in his sobs, whimpering pathetically as he was helpless and powerless to do much of anything else.

“Wait—! Hold on, there they are!” Kun called out as Renjun came running over. Yuta’s head snapped up, eyes wide, and all turned to where the arrivals were filtering in from.

“Si . . . Sicheng-ah? Sicheng-ah?!” Yuta tore himself away from Taeil and Taeyong, standing bolt upright, and he raced toward the center of everyone’s attention. Slowly, others followed suit.

A loud THUMP! echoed through the space as Yuta leapt at Sicheng and toppled him over in a huge bear hug full of snot and tears and screams of joy. The taller man Sicheng had arrived with watched with an expression of both amusement and annoyance.

“I thought I would never see you again!” Sicheng cried, burying his face in Yuta’s shirt. Bystanders watched the scene in befuddlement, wondering what these two grown men were doing rolling around on the floor and bawling their eyes out. Nonetheless, they were not disturbed.

After enough time on the floor to collect a layer of dust, Yuta stood up, then bent down to help Sicheng get on his feet as well. “Were you hurt?” Yuta asked worriedly, checking what he could see of Sicheng’s body for marks. “What did they do to you?”

“They didn’t hurt me,” Sicheng recounted sadly, “but they wouldn’t let me go outside. They didn’t want me to run off and ‘frolic’ with my ‘gay lovers.’ Basically, they didn’t want me to be with you.”

Yuta pouted. Chenle slowly approached his friend and embraced him in a hug, whispering a few encouraging words in Mandarin. Then, he asked, so everyone could hear, “Won’t they come looking for you?”

“He’s over the age of eighteen, so, legally, he doesn’t have to stay with his parents,” Johnny said matter-of-factly, “and they can’t legally force him to, homosexual or not.”

“I left them a note to let them know I’m gone,” Sicheng said dejectedly. “That way, they won’t file a ‘missing persons’ or something.”

“But . . . this means . . .” Haechan mumbled, almost inaudibly, “You’ll never be in contact with your parents again.”

Sicheng sighed deeply, letting his shoulders droop. “I made my choice. They wouldn’t accept me as I am. I had to decide between living in captivity as a forced-straight male or living freely as whoever I want, and . . . Well, it’s obvious what I picked.”

Slowly, everyone began to wrap him up in a huge group hug, squishing as close as they all could to comfort him. Awkwardly, Sicheng’s escort stood off to the side, hands in his pockets and eyes pointed to the sky.

“And you,” Taeyong began once he’d broken free from the hug, regarding the man with a neutrally grateful expression, “thank you. You have no idea what this means to us.”

Xukun gave a gentle smile and shrugged nonchalantly. “I do know. My dad would react the same way if I told him. I empathize with Sicheng-ssi greatly. And, besides . . . I owed it to you.”

Taeyong looked at the ground, shuffling his toes. “I can’t forgive you,” he said surely, with an undertone of regret, “but now I’ll have something better to think about when I hear your name. I wish you well in life, Cai Xukun.”

Xukun dipped his head respectfully, accepting his defeat. “I wronged you, Taeyong-ssi. That is unforgivable. However, I’m happy we could part on a good note, and I’m glad to have been of use in this situation.”

Chittaphon came forward and stood next to Taeyong defensively, arms crossed and eyes leveled. Xukun turned his attention to Chittaphon, regarding him with an equally serious look.

“You. Listen to me,” he said hoarsely, teeth gritted. “The man beside you is one of the best you’ll ever meet. He’s kind, he’s sensitive, he’s genuine, he’s trustworthy, and damn it, he’s cute. Do not fuck this up. You hear me? Don’t fuck it up.”

Chittaphon’s breathing remained even. “You’re speaking informally,” he said calmly.

Xukun stepped closer. “If you break his heart, I promise you, I will make your life a living Hell. So much so you’ll wish you were dead. Do I make myself clear?”

“Don’t worry,” Chittaphon droned, “if I broke his heart, my life would already be a living Hell.”

A small gasp escaped Taeyong’s throat at the raw integrity in his voice, and he looked wide-eyed at Chittaphon, searching for some hint of a joke—but no, for Chittaphon’s face was hard like iron, jaw tight and gaze like stone. 

“Good.” Xukun nodded curtly. Then, his posture relaxed, and he turned back to Taeyong. “This is goodbye, then,” he said, solemnly, memories flashing behind his eyes, “although not all was good, it was nice to see you again. I wish you well.”

With that, he turned and made his way to the exits. Taeyong and Chittaphon watched him go, watched his taut form disappear behind the yellow door of a taxi parked outside, watched the car pull away and disappear from view. Just like that, Cai Xukun was gone.

“I was suspicious, at first,” said Yuta, approaching from behind. “I thought you were crazy to enlist help from him. But he really came through. Without him, Sicheng would still be in Wenzhou. Thank you, Taeyong, and thanks to Xukun as well.”

“He’s a conflicting individual,” Taeyong sighed. “Even if I want to forgive him, I can’t bring myself to.”

Chittaphon gently touched Taeyong’s forearm. “It doesn’t matter now. He’s gone, and this time, I think it’s for good.”

***

“Welcome home!”

It was at that moment that Taeyong discovered Sicheng’s affinity for acting. Being mysteriously invited to Johnny’s house only an evening after returning from China was not exactly the best setup for a ‘surprise party,’ but Sicheng did an excellent job of feigning sudden glee after everyone jumped out from their hiding places. Yuta came forth and wrapped him in a tight bear hug.

“Welcome home, Sicheng-ah,” he said warmly. There was a sadness behind Sicheng’s eyes at the prospect of ‘home,’ but nonetheless he bowed gratefully and smiled away his resentments.

Johnny was standing in his kitchen, popping beer bottles open one by one and setting them out for the taking. Minsoo was cheerily at his side, head against his shoulder, watching with fascination as he effortlessly snapped off bottle cap after bottle cap.

“Will you be drinking tonight, Taeyongie?” Chittaphon asked sunnily, extending the invitation. 

“Of course,” Taeyong said sarcastically. “It’s a time for celebration, and I’ve dealt with hangovers at work before. Bring it on.”

Chittaphon shrugged humorously and led Taeyong to the kitchen, taking two opened beers off the island counter and passing one to his side. Johnny popped open the last bottle and moved to the fridge, where he took out boxes full of canned beer.

“That’s a lot of alcohol,” Chittaphon remarked, an edge to his tone that was both judgemental and excited.

“It is, isn’t it, Ten-oppa?” said Minsoo in a sweet voice, sauntering over to Chittaphon and latching onto his arm. “Everyone will be getting very drunk tonight. Do you hold your liquor well?”

Chittaphon gently took his arm back and sipped from his bottle with a shrug. “Moderately,” he said.

“Youngho-yah holds his liquor well. Almost too well,” she teased, sticking her tongue out at Johnny, who stuck his tongue out back.

Taeyong watched the scene curiously, and before he knew it, his bottle was empty. An aggressive game of cards had begun in the living room, involving a number of spoons assembled in a circle on the playing field. Jeno, Jaemin, Lucas, Jungwoo, and Mark were seated on the floor around the coffee table, slapping cards down rhythmically until one of them took a spoon, and the rest followed suit, until there was one person left who didn’t have a spoon, and the game reset and continued as such. Taeyong watched with a quizzical expression.

“You okay? You look lost,” said Doyoung, approaching from the side. He was joined by Jaehyun, Haechan, and Chenle, all of which seemed more-or-less sober—except for Haechan, who was swaying gradually. 

“I’m entranced by their game,” said Taeyong, who had somehow mysteriously downed two-thirds of his second bottle. 

“Would you believe that Yuta and Sicheng are still in the room with us?” Jaehyun remarked, gesturing to where Yuta, Sicheng, Renjun, Kun, and Taeil were crowded together on the couch and chatting. “They haven’t escaped to a guest room—yet.”

“Keyword, ‘yet,’” Chenle added.

“This party is in Sicheng’s honour. It would be a bit rude of him to disappear,” Taeyong pointed out. “Trust that he’ll at least wait until others have gone to sleep before he runs off to ‘have fun’ with Yuta.”

When he could no longer swallow his curiosity, he approached the group playing cards and asked them to teach him the game. They played ‘Spoons’—so they call it—for what seemed like hours, well into the night and well past four beers. Taeyong stepped away when he could no longer read the numbers on the cards.

He stumbled back to the kitchen and almost tripped over a pair of long legs stretched out on the floor. He let his wobbly eyes follow the legs up to their body, and then the face—it was Johnny, sitting on the floor and leaning against the island counter. Next to him was Chittaphon, and next to Chittaphon was Minsoo. Taeyong was dumbfounded to discover that the two boys were absolutely shit-faced.

“How much have you drank?” Taeyong asked incredulously, kicking an empty beer can so it rolled into a pile of other empty cans and bottles. 

“A lot,” Johnny giggled.

“This many,” said Chittaphon, eyes drooping, holding up two shaky jazz hands. Taeyong wasn’t sure if that meant ‘ten’ or ‘more than ten,’ but he guessed it was the latter.

Minsoo, who seemed modestly buzzed but nowhere near as smashed as Johnny and Chittaphon, glanced at the pair of them. “They sat here and chugged beers,” she scoffed playfully. “I think it was a drinking contest? Anyway, even Youngho-yah is drunk. Isn’t that amazing?”

Chittaphon giggled cutely and snuggled up to Johnny’s shoulder. “Johnny was saying . . . something . . . What were you saying Johnny-ah?”

Johnny glanced at him with soft eyes. “I don’t . . . Was I? What was I— Oh! Yes. So, Korean food is popular in the west now, so restaurants and journalists use slogans like ‘Seoul food’ or ‘gotta have Seoul’ . . . Get it? ‘Seoul’? As in ‘soul’?”

Chittaphon blinked, gears turning in his head, before it seemed to click and he jumped excitedly and laughed out loud, clapping enthusiastically. “Oh! ‘Seoul food’! That’s clever!”

Johnny rolled his eyes. “No . . . No, see, it was clever, the first time. Now that everyone’s saying it, it’s lame. They need new jokes. Like . . . Oh! I got one. Where can a ghost go to get his favourite food?”

Chittaphon looked at Johnny, wide-eyed. “Where?”

“Boo-san!” Johnny hollered, prompting a riotous laugh from them both. Taeyong rolled his eyes so hard he thought they’d pop out of his skull.

“Taeyongie! This way! We’re doing shots!” called Doyoung from the other room. He was holding up a shot glass and waving it to-and-fro invitingly, eyebrows waggling.

Taeyong looked at Johnny. “Go,” said Johnny, “we’re done for the night. I am . . . not okay. You have fun.”

“What are you talking about? I’m greeeeaaaat,” Chittaphon droned giddily.

“Watch him,” Taeyong warned, “he gets horny when he’s drunk.”

Johnny looked at Chittaphon and popped up an eyebrow. Chittaphon reared back defensively. “Who, me? Nonsense!” he denied, shaking his head. “I don’t get horny when I’m drunk. I’m aaaaalways horny!”

Taeyong rolled his eyes again. “Whatever. Be safe, you three.”

With that, he left them in the kitchen to their devices. Doyoung had cleared away the cards and set up a station for shots, with a selection of hard liquors in the middle of the coffee table surrounded by a circle of small glasses. Jaehyun, Lucas, Mark, Taeil, Jungwoo, Yuta, and Sicheng were gathered around, practically vibrating with anticipation.

“Each man starts with his own liquor,” instructed Jaehyun, “and once you’ve taken a shot, pass it to your left—left is law. When you’ve had enough, leave the circle. Last man standing wins.”

Taeyong grabbed the closest bottle to himself, a rectangular shape filled with brown liquid and covered in a black label. Taeyong squinted to read the label, which had English words printed in white. “Jaek . . . Dae-ni-uls?”

“Jack Daniel’s,” corrected Jaehyun, perfectly. “I lived in America for four years. That stuff is custom.”

Shrugging, Taeyong poured himself a shot and tipped it back, letting the alcohol slide down his throat. It tasted like something one would use to clean a car engine and burned going down, but it left a hot pool in his stomach that made him feel like he was sitting by a fire on a cold winter’s day. Shaking his head to clear the dizziness, he passed the bottle left.

Soon, only he and Lucas remained in the circle, the others having crawled away in varying degrees of hammered. Taeyong had lost the ability to read the labels and could no longer see straight, but he tipped back a final shot with such ease that it sent Lucas stumbling away in defeat. He was victorious.

“We have . . . a winner!” Jaehyun slurred, holding up one of Taeyong’s arms. His head drooped and his body felt heavy, but the warmth in his belly and the buzzing in his brain made him feel like he could do anything.

With that in mind, he finally blacked out.

***

“It’s okay, buddy. Let it all out.”

Taeyong was shut in Johnny’s bathroom, crouched over the toilet with his face stuffed into the bowl, emptying the entirety of his stomach contents in a horrendous display of sickness. Jaemin was bent over above him, patting him on the back of the head and offering menial words of encouragement.

Taeyong couldn’t recall most of what had happened the night before. Most memories were fuzzy at best, and everything after the shot competition was completely lost to him. 

When he’d finally puked so much he could puke no more, he lifted his head and sighed deeply, leaning back and pinching the bridge of his nose. Jaemin reached over and flushed the toilet, then extended a hand to help Taeyong stand.

“Go drink some water,” he suggested, “and try to eat something. You threw up a lot.”

Taeyong waved his thanks to Jaemin as he trudged out of the washroom. In the kitchen, he poured himself a glass of water and downed it in four huge gulps, setting the cup back on the counter with a satisfied and exhausted sigh.

“You gonna make it to work today?” asked a tired voice from nearby. Taeyong looked down to see Johnny sitting in the same spot he occupied the night before, sprawled on the floor and leaning against the island counter. However, this time, he was alone.

“I think so,” Taeyong mumbled, glancing at the clock that boasted 7:45 AM. “Where’d the other two go?”

Johnny looked up at him quizzically. “What other two?”

“Ten-hyung and Minsoo-ssi,” Taeyong said exasperatedly. “They were with you last night. Where did they go?”

Johnny searched his memory, looking at his hands and he fought to recollect the previous night. Finally, something seemed to click. “Minsoo-yah took Ten-ssi to bed last night, because he was so drunk she had to tuck him in and stuff. Isn’t she sweet?”

“Right . . .” Taeyong squinted suspiciously. “If she tucked him in last night, where is she now?”

Johnny had a blank look. “She should’ve come back hours ago,” he said quietly.

They looked at each other for a long moment, the same terrified emotion shared between them. Then, Johnny got up quickly, supporting himself on the countertop, and made his way to his bedroom. He burst in, almost knocking the door off its hinges, breathes coming harsh and ragged through his nostrils.

“Aahh!” yelled a voice, followed quickly by the sounds of covers shuffling around. Taeyong pushed past Johnny and stepped into the room, the smell of sweat and musk hanging heavy in the air.

“Hey! Do you mind?!” Yuta scowled crossly, Sicheng tucked in his arms, both of them covered by the down throw. Johnny’s shoulders sagged.

He sighed heavily. “Did you have sex in my bed?”

“Uh . . .” Yuta hummed sheepishly. “Maybe?”

Johnny scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Jesus Christ . . . You’re washing the sheets. I’m not touching that.”

That established, Johnny turned out of the room and shut the door behind Taeyong. They looked at each other again, the same question displayed behind both their eyes: Where were Chittaphon and Minsoo?

“Guest room?” Taeyong suggested.

Shrugging, Johnny led the way down the hall, seeming to have calmed down. He carefully swung open the door to the guest room and stepped inside, and instantly, his whole body froze.

Taeyong peeked over Johnny’s shoulder to see inside. The room was tastefully plain, with a nice window allowing natural light inside and clean floors complete with a soft rug. The bedcovers were shades of gentle beige and appeared to be made of a linen-like material. The space was empty, aside from two bodies nestled comfortably in the queen-sized bed.

One of the bodies stirred, creamy arms coming up to rub its face and push long strands of brown hair out of the way. It sat up, holding up the covers to conceal its naked chest, and looked at the two in the doorway.

“Youngho . . . yah?” Minsoo mumbled blankly, voice laced with sleep. The clothes she’d been wearing the night before were strewn all over the floor, including undergarments. Johnny was livid.

Taeyong shoved passed Johnny’s statuesque form and stalked into the room, reaching across Minsoo to shake the other body, which was still sound asleep. He didn’t really need confirmation—he knew who it was, could recognize the soft brown hair and numerous ear piercings. Still, his heart was beating fast and angry in his chest, wrought with disbelief.

The body moved. Chittaphon sat partway up and held his head, wincing at his undoubtedly horrid headache. He then straightened and looked around the room, at his clothes all over the floor, and seemed dumbfounded. Then, his eyes rested on Taeyong.

“Taeyongie?” he sputtered. Taeyong’s shoulders were set and his eyes were hard, his jaw locked and fists clenched as he breathed through his anger. “What’s going on? Why are you upset?”

Johnny was still standing, frozen and blank like a block of ice, in the doorway. Minsoo was biting her lip and looking guiltily at the floor. Taeyong was nearly shaking, his teeth grinding. He didn’t even know what to say.

“Minsoo-yah . . .” Johnny choked out, broken with tears. “What . . . is this?”

Minsoo sighed in defeat. “There’s nothing I can really say, is there?”

Chittaphon was glancing around fervently with wide eyes. “What—?”

“How could you?” Taeyong growled.

“. . . Huh?” Minsoo looked at him, confused and scared. 

“How could you?!” Taeyong roared. “In your own boyfriend’s house?! You used him! Johnny is the most trusting and selfless friend I have ever had and you used him!”

“I . . . I didn’t—” she tried.

“And you!” Taeyong snarled, turning to Chittaphon, who looked completely lost. “I don’t even care about myself, but you knew how Johnny felt about her, and yet still—! You’re disgusting!”

Chittaphon looked really hurt. “Taeyong—”

Johnny finally moved from his stationary position and started picking up articles of clothing. When he’d amassed a pile, he tossed them coldly at Minsoo. “Get out of my house,” he said icily, then turned and walked away without another word.

With one final furious glance at Chittaphon, Taeyong stalked out after him. He pushed through the crowd that had gathered outside the room, following Johnny down the hall and into the main room.

“Johnny! Hold on!” Chittaphon called. He’d put on his underwear and t-shirt and come running through the throng of people, breathless and concerned. “Johnny, I don’t— I don’t know— It’s not what you—”

Johnny growled low and deep and shoved Chittaphon against the wall, pressing his forearm into his neck and choking him. Chittaphon struggled, gasped for air, and clawed at Johnny’s tricep, but he wouldn’t budge.

“I thought you were my friend,” Johnny whispered, gruff and painful, before releasing Chittaphon and letting him fall to his knees in a fit of coughs. 

Chittaphon looked up pleadingly at Taeyong, tears in his eyes. “Taeyongie, please, listen to me . . .”

“I have nothing to say to you,” Taeyong spat, turning away in time to see Johnny disappear out the front door. Wordlessly, he collected his stuff and followed.

***

“Where did Johnny go?” Yuta asked, breaking the long silence. Taeyong, Taeil, Mark, Yuta, and Chittaphon had all made it to the workroom, though the author sat away from everyone else, head down on his desk, and not a soul engaged him.

“I don’t know,” Taeyong whispered, “but he texted me this.” He held up his phone so everyone could see.

4월 17일, 10:16 오전   
난 괜찮아 (I am safe/okay)  
난 잠시 혼자 있어야한다 (I need to be alone for a while)  
제발 나를 찾으려하지 마 (Please don’t look for me)

Yuta bit his lip worriedly. Mark held his stomach like he was sick. Taeil glanced at Chittaphon, disappointment and anger in his eyes.

“What if he . . . you know,” Mark squeaked quietly, “like before . . .”

“No doubt he’s upset,” Taeil remarked. “His girlfriend slept with his friend in his own home. That’s betrayal on, like, three fronts.”

Chittaphon lifted his head, revealing a face pale as a sheet and streaked with tears. “Guys, I—” he started, voice cracked and hoarse. “Can I just—”

All turned to him, brows furrowed and eyes narrowed, pupils like chips of ice searing into Chittaphon’s skin. He looked broken, and stayed quiet.

“If anything, and I mean anything,” Taeyong advanced on him, “happens to Johnny, I will— I’ll— God, I don’t even know what I’ll do, but whatever it is, it will hurt. A lot.”

Chittaphon stood up so quickly his chair toppled back and clattered to the floor, and he slammed his open palms down on the table. “I was blackout drunk!” he protested. “I don’t remember sleeping with her! I don’t even remember going to bed! I was sitting on the kitchen floor, doing a drinking contest with Johnny, and after that, nothing. I swear.”

Taeyong snorted and turned back to the pile of papers he had been sorting. Chittaphon grunted frustratedly. “Come on, guys!” he begged. “I promise on my life, it was a mistake, I don’t even know— I would never—!”

“Just—!” Taeyong started to yell, then stopped and lowered his voice, “Just . . . don’t.”

A cough sounded in the doorway. Everyone looked up to see longtime colleague Max standing there, files in hand, looking spooked.

“I came to go over these,” he said, “but you all seem . . . busy. I’ll come back later.”

They watched him promptly turn and leave. Chittaphon righted his chair and sat down with a disheartened sigh, putting his face in his hands. Everyone else got back to work, ignoring the elephant in the room. Hours passed in silence, Chittaphon staying with his head down the whole time, others ignoring him in favour of individual projects. Awkwardness hung in the air like a plague.

Suddenly, the door swung open, so quickly it smacked against the opposite wall, disturbing the peace. Taeyong glanced up to see Minsoo standing there, wild-eyed and terrified, something clasped tightly in her right hand. All eyes pointed at her were full of hatred—even Taeil, who was always so sweet, looked like he might kill her.

“You have some nerve, showing your face here,” Mark quipped.

Minsoo ignored him, instead making a beeline for Chittaphon, who stared at her with cold indifference. She slapped what she was holding down on the table—a small, white, plastic strip, with two vertical red lines on the front. Taeyong and Yuta exchanged a curious glance.

Chittaphon looked down at the object with his eyebrows raised. “What’s this?”

Panting, sweaty, and exhausted like she’d run a marathon, Minsoo collapsed into a chair next to Chittaphon. She then leaned her elbows on the table and looked at him seriously.

“Ten-oppa,” she whispered, “I’m pregnant.”


	19. The Scent of Whiskey and Perfume

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all (^O^)／
> 
> Who's ready for this extra-special chapter that takes us back in time into the mind and past of one such Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul?
> 
> There are a lot of time/place changes in this chapter and it may get a little bit confusing, so just read slowly and pay attention to what's happening and you should be fine.
> 
> Thanks again for waiting and I hope you all enjoy this chapter! (*^。^*)

It seemed all his time in Korea was finally taking its toll, as speaking his native language almost felt unnatural. His Thai had gotten rusty from disuse, and if it weren’t for friends like Lisa, he may very well lose it entirely.

“You’re having problems with your editor?” Lisa asked, through sips of her coffee. It was a brisk day in the end-cusp of winter, late February, and thus, hot drinks were customary.

“Yes! He’s absolutely insufferable!” Chittaphon complained. He was aware they were getting looks from other customers who couldn’t understand their language, but he was used to it, and ignored them. “He never listens to me, always questions my judgement, and tries to change major aspects of my novels! I’m the writer here!”

Lisa sipped her coffee again, slower, a contemplative look on her face. “That sounds awful. Could you get a new one?”

Chittaphon hung his head. “This is already my third editor at Daydream. Coworkers will think I’m a snob if I keep switching, won’t they?”

He had only been at Daydream for a short year, but he’d already blasted through an unreasonable number of editors. The first because she reminded him of someone he’d like to forget, the second because he was too absent-minded, and now this one, for his bossy personality. 

“I don’t think they will,” Lisa shrugged. “If you explain your problems with your previous editors, I think they should understand.”

He appreciated her input, but silently concluded she didn’t know what she was talking about. Lisa had never worked in a high-pressure profession like a publishing house—she was young, still in school, and working menial jobs like waitressing and retail. Nonetheless, she’d been his friend through thick and thin, and he would take her advice to heart.

“I’ll see,” he decided. “I can ask around about available editors. I can only hope there’ll be some better options from here on out.”

He gazed out the coffee shop window, at the people passing by, at the sun dipping toward the horizon. He could feel Lisa watching him, questions dazzling her big eyes, her lips parted as words rested there, uncertain if it was right to exit.

Finally, she spoke. “How are you—”

“I don’t want to talk about her,” Chittaphon snapped, head ducking down to look deeply into his cup of tea. His eyebrows were knotted, jaw set, knuckles white from holding onto the handle of his mug. “I’m back on my feet now. I don’t think about her anymore. That’s all there is to say.”

Lisa gulped. “Well, she’s probably . . . you know . . . by now,” she whispered, “do you think about that?”

Chittaphon’s shoulders sagged. “Sometimes,” he admitted, “but I try not to. It’s none of my concern. She made that very clear.”

“What if . . . it is?” Lisa mused. “She could be . . . lying.”

Chittaphon squeezed the bridge of his nose. “I don’t . . . want to even consider that. She’s gone, and so is . . . They’re both gone.”

Lisa opened her mouth to say more, but Chittaphon swallowed the last of his drink and stood up before she could. “I’ll be going,” he announced, “it was nice seeing you. Take care.”

He walked home, hands stuffed in his pockets to hide from the biting chill, eyes pointed at the ground, deep in thought. It was weird, to think that Sofia—if that is still her name—was still out there, somewhere. He shook his head to clear the idea. It was not his business. 

The sun set and rose again as always, another day dragging his life forth even as he felt rooted to the spot. He wanted to say that Soomi had not affected him so drastically; yet, even still, a year later, his heart had not healed enough to lift to new heights. Nothing, and nobody, interested him anymore.

He stopped in the break lounge, early afternoon sun creeping through the windows at the top of the walls, and leaned against the edge of one of the tables. He sipped from his commuter mug and scrolled through his phone, ideas and plot points swimming about in his head, landing nowhere. He sighed.

Then, the lounge door opened, and two new faces came into view, tired eyes and forced smiles gracing them both. One was, he recognized, Byun Baek Hyun from the IT department, but the other was unknown to him. Chittaphon was immediately intrigued—this one had soft hair shrouding his eyes and a sharp jawline, a pretty smile and stout figure, an empty mug of $1 coffee in hand. He laughed, and it sounded like sweet music and sent Chittaphon’s heart fluttering.

The pair separated. Baekhyun walked to another table nearby while the beautiful stranger skipped over to the coffee machine to refill his mug. Heart still thumping beyond his control, Chittaphon edged over to Baekhyun.

“Excuse me, Baekhyun-ssi,” he said in a low voice, “can you tell me who that is?”

Baekhyun seemed startled that the author was talking to him, but shook off his starstruck expression quickly and cleared his throat. “Him? That’s Lee Tae Yong, from Department 5. He’s an editor. Why?”

Chittaphon narrowed his eyes and looked at this ‘Taeyong’ again. He was dancing subtly to the music in his own head as he waited for his mug to fill, running a hand through those gorgeous brown locks, pushing up the sleeves of his oversized sweater. Chittaphon wasn’t sure about the feeling in his stomach, but he knew he’d only ever felt that way about another person once before—and she was a very dangerous woman.

“An editor, you say?” Chittaphon hummed, tapping his chin. “I’m on the lookout for one of those. How good is he?”

“Uh . . .” Baekhyun gulped, looking at Taeyong and back again. “I . . . couldn’t tell you, author-nim, I haven’t worked with him. I would ask some of the other authors.”

Chittaphon glanced at Taeyong again, who took his now-full mug and gleefully made for the door, waving curtly at Baekhyun. His eyes drifted, and for a second, their gazes locked, and Chittaphon felt warmth pool in the deep recesses of his stomach. Yes, very dangerous indeed.

Days had passed, then, and Chittaphon’s head was still filled with thoughts of prominent jaw bones and soft hair, of that fairylike smile and doe-eyed gaze, of the feeling he couldn’t shake from his beating heart. He had his head down on his desk, clock ticking loudly in his office, his recently-fired editor making his way out the door. Chittaphon wondered if he was making the right choice.

He got up for a short bathroom break, ducking into the men’s lavatory just to stand in front of the mirror for a while in silence. His one novel was so close to completion but had been halted because of the complications with his editor, but that wasn’t the writing on his mind. His other persona, his secret alter-ego Rune, had been on a long hiatus due to writer’s block led on by romantic fault—but finally, at long last, an idea was in his head once more.

Just then, the door opened, and a sweetly familiar face waltzed in, hands outstretched before them like one would hold a wet towel. Taeyong stopped at the sink next to Chittaphon, turning the tap on high, and began to wash his hands vigorously to cleanse them of whatever substance had dirtied them. Chittaphon watched without making it obvious he was watching—he saw his own character born, formed of the angelic presence beside him, and a storyline unfold behind his existence. Chittaphon was buzzing with excitement—he’d never had such an urge to write in his life. 

He charged through his front door like a riled-up rhino, tossing his bag aside so files and papers scattered across his floor, kicking his shoes off into a messy pile of other shoes. He sat down at his computer table with such purpose he almost toppled right off the chair, but he managed to stabilize himself and settle his anticipation enough to start typing.

He wrote voraciously into the night, fingers flying across his keyboard, clack-clacking words onto the screen, pages and pages unfolding as the hours ticked by. Three energy drinks, zero sleep, and twelve hours later, he tapped the last period and sat back with a loud sigh, gazing at his fresh work.

It was titled ‘In Words He Trusts,’ by Rune.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve been so inspired,” he said, head lolling on his shoulders to face the fluffy bobtail cat curled up on a nearby chair. “What will I do, Khon Dii? The last time I was this affected by a person, she ruined my life. I can’t risk putting myself in that position again. But that Taeyong . . . I can’t simply ignore him.”

Khon Dii lifted her head and glared at him tiredly. She made a single uninterested mrrow and quickly went back to her nap.

“You’re right. The heart wants what the heart wants,” Chittaphon declared. “I shall make that Taeyong my editor if it’s the last thing I do. I just pray it won’t turn out like before.”

Khon Dii remained motionless, lowing boredly into her paws.

Chittaphon shook his head. “Of course I won’t fall for him! Our relationship will be strictly professional. I was a fool to have ever thought I could have something more than that with my editor. I won’t bend so easily, not like last time . . .”

***

It was a hot summer’s day in Seoul—birds bustling in the trees, commuters packed like sardines on the trains, traffic backed up four blocks because of rush hour, sunlight baking the concrete far below. Chittaphon gulped nervously as he gazed at the tall glass doors before him, grip tightening around the strap of his shoulder bag. He willed his feet to move, but nervousness kept him stationary for what felt like an eternity. Finally, he walked.

“Hi there, welcome to Treble Publishing, do you have an appointment?” asked an attendee at the front desk. He shuffled his feet and looked around, throat clogged and words lost.

“I’m . . . Um, my name is Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul, I’m . . . an author,” he said feebly. 

“Ah, Mr. Leechaiyapornkul,” said the attendee, with a smile, “have a seat, the director will be right with you.”

No sooner had he sat down at a bench did the director come striding out from an elevator, one hand stuffed into the pocket of his expensive suit pants. He had a well-maintained salt-and-pepper beard and a full head of mostly-black hair, a thin pair of glasses on his nose, and a holster for his phone strapped to his belt. The look he gave Chittaphon was intimidating to say the least.

“Ah! Chittaphon-ssi!” he said with a wide grin. “Allow me to formally welcome you to Treble Publishing! We are honoured to have you join our team. Right this way, I’ll show you who you’ll be working with.”

They took the elevator up three floors in silence, the director checking his messages and Chittaphon tapping out a rhythm with his foot. When the doors opened, they were met with several curious gazes from individuals tucked away in office cubicles, but the director paid them all no mind as he walked coolly down the hall and opened the door to a room.

Chittaphon froze up like a deer in the headlights when he entered the room. Many pairs of eyes were trained at him, workers frozen mid-activity as they stared in wonder at the new arrival. The director cleared his throat and made an announcement.

“Department 7, this is Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul,” he said, “he’ll be in your care from now on. Work well.”

With that, the director departed and shut the door behind him. A nice-looking gentleman with blonde hair and chubby cheeks approached first, hand outstretched.

“So you’re the popular new author we’ll be working for?” he asked. “Neat. I’m Daniel Kang, it’s nice to meet you.”

Chittaphon relaxed and shook his hand, offering an overwhelmed smile. Others came up to him in turn, introducing themselves as Park Ji Hoon, Hwang Min Hyun, Lee Dae Hwi, and Ong Seong Woo, respectively.

“Wait— ‘Ong’? That’s a strange name,” Chittaphon remarked. “Are you really an ‘Ong’?”

“I really am,” said Seongwoo, “and don’t you start telling me about strange names, Mr. Chee-tah-pon Lee-chai-ya-pon-kun.”

Chittaphon shrugged, defeated. He busied himself talking to his new colleagues, until the door swung open behind him and footsteps stopped in their tracks.

“Oh. You’re here already.”

He turned to the source of the voice. At the door stood a tall, pretty lady in well-mannered clothes, carrying a stack of unfinished book drafts. She had long, wavy hair and expertly-applied makeup, deep brown eyes one could get lost in, and a soft face. Chittaphon felt weak in the knees.

“Hello there,” she said sweetly, “my name is Kim Soo Mi. I’m the chief editor here. And you are?”

Chittaphon sputtered, eyes wide and pupils shaking, dizzy from the close proximity to such a nuclear beauty. When he realized he was getting weird looks, he quickly bowed down 90° and then straightened perfectly upright.

“I-I’m . . . My name is . . . Uh,” he stammered. Soomi giggled and brought a hand up to cover her mouth, eyes curving into pretty crescents. 

“You’re Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul”—she said it perfectly—“the new author under our care. Is that correct?”

He perked up and chuckled nervously. “Yes, that’s right. Please take care of me!”

Soomi bowed graciously and set the book drafts she was carrying down on the table. Chittaphon stood next to her, observing her beautifully-manicured nails and pretty hands, eyes following up her arm to rest on her soft face, gaze latching onto a mole under her left eye. She had long lashes and plump lips, was dressed like an actress, and had hair that seemed smoother than silk. Chittaphon gulped—how would he survive working so close to someone like that?

Visits to Chittaphon’s apartment became commonplace. She would show up unannounced at any time, usually late afternoon, and insist they work on his latest title. She would stay late into the night, filling up the space with the scent of her perfume, until she deemed enough had been completed. Then, she would leave, as suddenly as she’d come.

On one such night, they were seated at the desk beside the glass doors that opened to Chittaphon’s balcony, faces stuffed into the pages of the early draft of his latest work, ‘The Bed is a Circus.’ They’d worked tirelessly for hours, correcting mistakes and crossing out problem areas, until the draft looked more like a child’s colouring book. Finally, Soomi stood up and stretched out her back with a satisfied groan.

“I think we’ve finished for now,” she announced, proud. Chittaphon smiled up at her, and she looked warmly at him, their thoughts intertwining—they both wanted the same thing, and they both knew that the other knew. After a long moment, Soomi broke from the trance, walking away from the desk. However, unlike previous nights, she did not collect her bag and make for the door. Instead, she went into his small kitchen and began raiding the cupboards.

Curiously, Chittaphon approached, wondering what she could be looking for. After a short, fruitless search, she turned around with a huff and pouted, “Don’t you have any alcohol?” 

He blinked. When his brain had processed her request, he jumped a little, and ran a hand through his hair nervously. “There’s whiskey on the top shelf,” he whispered.

She collected the bottle and two small glasses, filled them both up generously, then led him to the couch. They sat on the soft cushions, sinking into the springs, shoulders almost touching. Chittaphon’s heartbeat quickened as she removed her sweater and turned on the TV.

“Cheers,” she said quietly, clinking their glasses together and taking a big swig. When she’d downed it, her face screwed up and she smacked her lips at the taste. Chittaphon swallowed his with ease and chuckled at her display.

“I didn’t take you for a hard alcohol girl,” he commented, taking another shot-sized gulp.

“Whatever gets me drunker, quicker,” she shrugged.

Feeling bold, he inched a little closer to her, so they were arm-to-arm and hip-to-hip. She looked at him, eyes dazzled with liquor, mouth pursed in amusement. He looked at her, eyes hooded, lips parted and hot breaths coming out in rapid succession.

“Nothing good ever happens when I drink with a girl,” he said quietly.

She bravely shifted closer to him, so they were squished together, and brought her face close so their noses brushed and she could taste his air. “This isn’t good?” she asked, tantalizingly.

With only a moment’s hesitation, he set his whiskey down on the table and swooped in, taking her lips in his, wrapping his arms around her and bringing her body impossibly close. A small gasp escaped her as she wriggled to set her whiskey down, and once it was out of her grasp, she fought back, taking fistfuls of his shirt and tugging him into her, pressing her front against his. He swept a hand underneath her and pulled her under him, pushing her down onto her back in one swift motion.

“Is this . . . happening?” she asked breathlessly.

“Do you want it to?” he retaliated gruffly.

“Yes,” she sighed, “I really want this.”

*** ***

“Ten-oppa . . . I’m pregnant.”

Chittaphon’s blood ran cold. He stared at the white strip in disbelief, trying to find some kind of fault—but there was none, the two red lines clear as day, the horror in Minsoo’s eyes too stark to be fake. The room was frozen, cold like ice, hate-fueled gazes pointed at them as the news set in.

“You’re what?!” Taeyong exploded, grabbing the pregnancy test and holding it up to see it properly. His eyes were wild and his face was red, teeth gritted and fist clenched. Chittaphon had never seen him look so angry, and he felt his heart breaking as he knew that anger was directed at him.

“Taeyongie, I wouldn’t touch that,” Mark whispered calmly, “she peed on—”

“Urgh!” Taeyong growled, hurling the test at the wall so it broke into pieces. He rounded on Chittaphon, stalking towards him, breathing coming out in harsh, rapid bursts. Chittaphon backed away until his back hit the counter and he could run no further.

“Are you serious?” Taeyong whispered hoarsely. “You not only fucked Johnny’s girlfriend in Johnny’s house, but you didn’t use protection? You got Johnny’s girlfriend pregnant?!”

“Wait, Taeyong, there must be some kind of mistake . . .” Chittaphon whimpered, tears pricking at his eyes and spilling down his cheeks, lip quivering with his fear and shame. Faced with the full force of Taeyong’s gaze, and the dawning realization of how deep he’d dug his own grave, Chittaphon felt faint.

Before he knew what was happening, spots clouded his vision and he lost feeling in his head, his knees buckling beneath his weight and sending him crashing to the ground in an anxious heap. Taeil shoved Taeyong aside and knelt next to him, feeling his head and shaking him until he came to.

“Ten-ssi? Ten-ssi?! Are you alright?” Taeil asked fervently when Chittaphon opened his eyes.

Quivering madly, Chittaphon whimpered pathetically and shook his head. “No . . . No . . . !” he mumbled, incoherent, hands gripping his hair, eyes squeezing shut. “No! This can’t happen again!”

Taeyong took another threatening step forward. “Again?! What do you mean ‘again’?!”

*** ***

It had been two years since he’d joined Treble Publishing House. Two years since he’d finally been signed to a proper, big agency, and two years since he’d met the love of his life. A year and a half since he’d gotten his big break with ‘The Bed is a Circus’ and been able to afford a beautiful hilltop penthouse in Apgujeong-dong. He was rich, he had a beautiful home and an even more beautiful girlfriend, and all those years toiling away writing in dark rooms had finally paid off. Life could not get any better.

He was standing in front of his stove in nothing but pajama pants, poking at a slowly-cooking egg with a spatula. It was the dawn-tipped hours of the early morning, with warm orange light pooling through the windows and sweet birdsong playing outside. He felt fully content, eyes gently tired and muscles relaxed, a smile on his face as he could imagine her reaction at breakfast in bed.

Or . . . so he thought. The bedroom door opened suddenly and Soomi came stumbling out, rubbing at her eyes and smoothing her bedhead. She trudged to the bathroom and shut the door behind her, making a fuss as she knocked something over and the sound of numerous bottles crashing to the ground could be heard, followed by a string of curse words.

Chittaphon chuckled warmly and resumed watching his egg. He shut his eyes for a moment, basking in the morning ease, relishing the few seconds of silence.

Silence that was quickly broken, however, when a scream sounded from the bathroom, startling him out of his trance. He dropped the spatula in fear and went running down the hall, just as the bathroom door swung open and a crazed Soomi appeared, panting, on the other side.

“What is it?! What’s happened?! Are you hurt?!” he asked wildly, grabbing her by the shoulders and checking for injuries. 

She suddenly softened, and a wide smile spread across her face. “No, it’s nothing like that . . . You’ll never believe it.”

He perked up an eyebrow. “Why? What is it?” 

“Ten-oppa!” she squealed excitedly, clasping his hands in hers. “I’m pregnant!”


	20. The Scent of River Spray

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, Chapter 20!
> 
> Finally, the long wait is over! Is Johnny alive?? Is Minsoo pregnant with Ten's baby??? Will Taeyong EVER take a chill pill???? Find out below (((NOT CLICKBAIT)))!!!!!!!!!
> 
> Anywho... A few notes ٩(｡・ω・｡)و  
> ~ "Mark-yah" sounds weird and wrong in English, but recall that they're all supposed to be speaking Korean, and "Mark" in Korean is 마크 (Ma-keu), so what Yuta says is supposed to sound more like "Ma-keu-yah"  
> ~ Mapo Bridge, because of its crude nickname "The Suicide Bridge", is decorated with encouraging messages that glow at night. These messages include "밥은 먹었어?" ("Have you eaten?") and "어려웠을 것임에 틀림 없어" ("It must have been difficult").
> 
> Also, something special! See the end of this chapter for a sneak-peek at one of the novels I'm currently working on, and one I hope to publish in the future! 
> 
> Enjoy (=^・^=)

“So, explain what happened. From the beginning.”

Yuta was giving Minsoo a scolding look as she sat, head hung, on a chair. Chittaphon was curled up beside the wall with a cup of water in his hand, Taeil holding a cloth to his pale face. Taeyong was furiously pacing back and forth, Mark watching him worriedly from his place atop the workroom table.

“Wh-Where . . . Where is Youngho-yah?” Minsoo asked feebly, avoiding Yuta’s order.

“He’s gone!” Taeyong shouted, stomping his foot. “Nobody knows where he is! He ran away after you broke his poor heart! What’ll he think when he hears about this?!”

Mark grabbed hold of Taeyong’s bicep, tugging him back. “Taeyong-ssi, stop. She’s terrified. Let her explain herself.”

Taeyong huffed, tossing his head as he reluctantly stepped away. Minsoo crumpled further into herself, squishing her hands between her thighs and hanging her head lower between her hunched shoulders. Chittaphon was watching her with a dead, emotionless expression.

“I’ve always liked Ten-oppa,” she confessed, whimpering. “When I found out Youngho-yah worked for him, and I was able to get close . . . I couldn’t control myself. I know I should have been loyal, but when I went to tuck him in that night, and he started rubbing up against me . . . How could I have resisted?”

Taeyong shot Chittaphon a repulsed and furious glare. Chittaphon looked horrified, a cocktail of confusion and disbelief swimming in his eyes. He shook his head, then let it rest on his knees as his shoulders began to quake.

“You’re saying . . . Ten-goon came onto you?” Yuta asked, equally suspicious. “And you had sex with him? Without a condom on?”

Minsoo sniffled, tears beginning to well up in her eyes. “Y-Yes . . . I know it was stupid, and I shouldn’t have done it, but I was just so lost in the moment . . . !”

Taeyong slammed two open palms down on the table, shocking Minsoo and Chittaphon out of their own respective thoughts. “Get out! Both of you! Take your things, take your disgusting unborn baby and get out of this workroom! I never want to see either of you ever again!”

Minsoo and Chittaphon exchanged a look. Then, wordlessly, they both got up from their places, took their bags, and left. Taeyong breathed out his anger as the workroom door shut behind them, and there was silence.

“That was a little harsh, Taeyong,” said Taeil, seriously, as he stood up from the floor. 

“Yeah. Obviously they both fucked up really bad, but they know that. Do we have to make it even harder on them?” Yuta added.

Taeyong clenched his fists and growled, looking at the ground. “They deserve it.”

Mark approached him and placed a hand gently on his shoulder. “Do they? I mean, Minsoo-ssi was more-or-less sober and she should’ve known better, but Ten-goon? He was drunk out of his mind. He probably didn’t even know what he was doing, he had no control over his body. You’ve been blackout drunk before, you know what it’s like.”

“Ten-goon isn’t the only one who’s drunkenly had sex with someone and regretted it,” Yuta pointed out. “I mean, we all have, but you especially. I hate to bring this up, but isn’t this whole Minsoo situation a lot like what happened between you and Cai Xukun?”

Taeyong rounded on him and took a threatening two steps forward. “It’s nothing like that. Xukun wasn’t my best friend’s lover. I didn’t fuck him in my best friend’s house.”

“You were drunk out of your mind and he took advantage of that,” Taeil shrugged. “By the sounds of it, Minsoo-ssi did the same thing to Ten-goon. You didn’t feel right about your night with Xukun, and Ten-goon deeply regrets his night with Minsoo-ssi. Don’t you see? It’s the same.”

“It’s not!” Taeyong insisted. “She said he was ‘rubbing up’ against her! He was the one who initiated it!”

“Did you do nothing to Xukun? Were you just a lifeless body that he used? I sincerely hope not,” Mark hummed.

Taeyong tried to retaliate, but he stuttered. He remembered, faintly, mistaking Xukun for Chittaphon, and sliding into Xukun’s lap. He recalled Xukun’s hands stroking his skin, his lips coming close to his ear as he whispered, “You’re frisky all of a sudden.”

“Besides, all we have is Minsoo’s word. She could be lying. We don’t know if we can really trust her,” Yuta shrugged, sighing. “This is all a big mess. Of course the two of them fucked up, majorly, but the mistake has been made, and we can’t rewrite the past. What we can do is try to support our friend. Ten-goon has an unwanted baby on his hands now, what’s that going to do to his image?”

Taeyong snarled, grinding his teeth. “I don’t care about his image! How can you just forgive him? I’m so mad I can’t even think!”

“I know,” Taeil said softly, coming up to place two hands on Taeyong’s shoulders. “Cool off first. Forgiveness won’t come easily, even I’m still struggling with it. All I know is I want to help my friends. All of them.”

“That means you, too,” said Mark, tenderly, “and Johnny.”

Taeyong’s soul ached. Inside, a swirling mess of emotions were at war, churning his stomach and making pains in his chest. A part of him wanted to just forget everything, but his broken heart wouldn’t allow it.

“That’s right,” he decided, “we have to find Johnny first. That will ease my mind. After we talk to Johnny, we’ll think about what to do next. If Johnny can forgive them, then so can I.”

Taeil gave a relieved smile and stepped away. Mark crossed his arms over his chest with a satisfied breath in, and Yuta sighed tiredly and slumped down into the nearest chair.

“Does the drama ever stop with you people?”

Taeyong’s head snapped toward the voice. At the door, longtime colleague Max had returned, files still in hand. 

“Sorry, it’s none of my business,” Max went on. “Can we go over these files yet? I really need to get this done . . .”

Taeyong shook his head and exhaled slowly. “Talk to Taeil-ssi about that. I can’t work right now. I’m going for a walk.”

He stalked past a very concerned and very confused Max and went into the hall, breathing in the stagnant, dusty, paper-scented air. He walked toward the large common room filled with office cubicles and surrounded by panorama windows, none of which appeared to be open despite the heat. He made his way past the cubicles to an offshoot space with couches and a vending machine, where a few colleagues he barely recognized were gathered around.

“Hey, you’re Lee Tae Yong, right?” asked one of his coworkers, dressed smartly in suit pants and a button-up shirt. He cracked open a can of iced coffee and sat down on one of the cushioned chairs, folding one long, thin leg over the other.

“Um, yes,” Taeyong muttered. He was not in the mood for conversation.

His coworker smiled warmly. “I’m Lee Tae Min, I work in Human Resources. I’ve heard of you because our names are similar.”

“That’s . . . nice.” Taeyong shuffled his feet awkwardly. The only talk he’d heard of this ‘Taemin’ was Mark’s gossip about what goes on between him and Kim Jong In from IT. 

“Lee Tae Yong? Ah!” said another voice, belonging to someone tall and wideset reclined against the far wall. “I know you! You’re the chief editor of Department 5 who was chosen personally by that famous author. How is it working for him, by the way?”

Taeyong pinched the bridge of his nose and stifled his growing rage. “I don’t want to talk about him right now.”

“O-Oh,” the other coworker mumbled, crushed. “I see . . . Well, I’m Park Chan Yeol, I work in Department 3. Our chief editor is Kim Jun Myeon, I think you worked with him?”

Taeyong sat gruffly at one end of a couch, finding the cushions to be too rough and offering no support. “Yeah, I worked with him. Nice guy. Very feminine, too.”

“Oh, I know!” said Chanyeol, with a laugh. “He dressed up as a woman for Halloween one year, and he got hit on by more than one dude. Isn’t that hilarious?”

Despite himself, Taeyong chuckled. He’d never spoken to Chanyeol before, always believing him to be too loud and boisterous for his liking—his current friends were crazy enough. He never understood what it was Baekhyun seemed to like about him, until now.

“You’re not usually around this area,” Taemin mentioned, tilting his head, “what brings you here?”

Taeyong shrugged. “I needed to get away from my workroom. There’s just a lot of drama going on right now.”

Chanyeol hummed thoughtfully. “I know what you mean. You know Kang Seul Gi and Zhang Yi Xing? They work in Department 3 with me, and they have been driving me up the wall lately! Ever since Kim Jae Joong left, they’ve been insufferable.”

Taemin laughed and sat back in his chair with a wistful sigh. “Yeah, Jaejoong was always good at keeping those two in line. But you know who I really miss? Kim Jong Hyun. Remember him? He worked in sales.”

“Oh!” Chanyeol practically leaped off the ground. “Yeah, I remember him. He was great. He’d show up at our workroom to talk about market stuff and it would brighten up our day. I’m so sad he left Daydream. The new sales guy we see all the time just isn’t the same.”

Taeyong’s head was spinning—too many names. Because working with his closest friends meant he didn’t need to make new connections, he’d never gotten close to many others around the firm. He talked to Baekhyun from IT on occasion, and he’d had one or two decent-but-short conversations with Oh Se Hun from Department 2, but otherwise his relationships with his colleagues were shallow at best.

“You seem lost, Taeyong-ssi,” Taemin observed, a gentle look in his eyes. “More than that, you seem . . . distant? Is something the matter? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Taeyong looked at his hands, his fingers tangling together nervously. “There’s just . . . a lot happening in my life right now, and I’m not exactly at liberty to talk about it.”

Chanyeol gave him a sympathetic glance. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said quietly. 

There was silence between the three men, as everything began to weigh on Taeyong once again. He thought about Chittaphon, at his hurt and broken expression when he left the workroom, and began to consider that his friends may be right. Was he too harsh?

A new presence graced the vicinity, like a gentle breeze shaking Taeyong out of his thoughts. He looked up and felt shock run up and down his spine at the sight of the new arrival—an attractive coworker, in a tight dress shirt and pants, with a small face and prominent jawbone. It was Kim Jong In, from the IT department, who was the object of many office rumours and gossip, all of which was dubiously true.

“Hi guys,” Jongin said coolly, waving a slight hand. Chanyeol warmly acknowledged his presence while Taemin suddenly looked like a nervous puppy. 

“I don’t believe we’ve properly met,” said Taeyong, extending a hand. “I’m Lee Tae Yong. I work in Department 5.”

Jongin shook his hand curtly. “Yes, I’ve heard of you. You’re chief editor for that famous author—good stuff! Anyway, I just came looking for Taemin. There are some . . . files that need looking over.”

Taemin seemed lost for a moment, before he jumped and cleared his throat totally unsuspiciously. “Oh! Uh, yes, those, um . . . ‘files,’ of course. Well, it was nice meeting you, Taeyong-ssi. See you around!”

Quickly, Taemin hopped off the couch, crushed his coffee can, tossed it in the trash, and followed Jongin until they disappeared behind a corner at the end of the hall. Taeyong and Chanyeol watched where they’d gone for several moments in silence.

“They’re totally bangin’ each other,” Chanyeol finally said. They made knowing eye contact for a few seconds, then Taeyong looked away.

“I know,” he said, nodding slowly.

***

“So, have you cooled off?”

Taeyong sat down heavily in one of the leather chairs in the workroom. Yuta had both palms down on the tabletop, and was giving Taeyong a narrow-eyed look. 

“I guess. I’m just too exhausted and hungover to stay mad,” he sighed, rubbing his temples. “But I’m still agitated! We don’t know where Johnny is—he could be at the end of a rope or staring down the barrel of a gun for all we know! I can’t rest until I know he’s safe.”

“Don’t think like that, Taeyongie,” said Taeil, softly, as he rested a hand on Taeyong’s shoulder. Though, there was a glimmer in his eyes that said he was thinking similar thoughts.

Mark was pacing back and forth, biting his fingernails like a nervous tick—it appeared he’d been at it a while, as he’d already chewed all the way down to the skin. “He’s not answering any of our calls,” he said hollowly, pupils shaking. “The room feels so big with him gone!”

Yuta put two hands on his shoulders and looked him in the eyes. “Calm down, Mark-yah. Work is over, we can focus on finding Johnny. I’m sure he’s fine, albeit with a slight ice-cream overdose.”

Mark was still shivering when they’d piled into Taeil’s Kia, and his tremors only got worse as they scoured the sunset-bathed streets, looking for their lanky friend. Taeyong squeezed his hand to offer comfort, but it didn’t do much good.

“I called the Suicide Rescue Team at Mapo Bridge,” Yuta reported, “they haven’t found anyone fitting Johnny’s description. That’s a good sign.”

Taeyong’s phone buzzed. Boredly, he checked the notification, only to nearly leap out of his seat—it was a text from Johnny!

4월 17일, 6:48 오후  
니가 나를 찾고 있다는 걸 알아 . . . (I know you are looking for me . . .)  
난 다리가 내가 먹었던 지 묻는 곳이다. (I am where the bridge asks if I’ve eaten.)

“Check Mapo Bridge anyway,” Taeyong advised. “I know where we can find him.”

Uncertainly, Taeil drove to the infamous bridge, towering high over the roaring waters of the Han River. Taeyong jumped out of the car as soon as it slowed, reading each and every glowing blurb of text along the railing until he found the one he was looking for.

Sure enough, beneath the text that read “밥은 먹었어?” (“Have you eaten?”), there was a man sitting on the pavement, back against the railing and knees drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped haphazardly around his legs, staring straight ahead like a zombie. His phone, still on, was clasped in one hand, creating a tepid blue glow in the rapidly-encroaching darkness.Taeyong collapsed and began to cry, digging his palms into the grit of the stone beneath them.

“Johnny!” Taeyong sobbed, intakes of breath loud and hitched. “We were so worried!”

Johnny was eerily still, not shivering despite the goosebumps all over his exposed skin. “I wouldn’t kill myself over that devil woman,” he stated matter-of-factly. “However, in times like this, seeing the River calms me. It really puts my options out in front of me. And that”—he glanced down at the churning waters below—“is not it.”

Mark, Taeil, and Yuta appeared behind Taeyong’s doubled-over form. Johnny looked up at them blankly and blinked a couple times.

“Have . . .” Yuta seemed unsure if he should ask. “Have you heard?”

Johnny closed his eyes boredly. “That she’s pregnant? Yes. She texted me. I know it isn’t mine because we never slept together.”

“She says it’s . . .” Taeyong clenched his jaw tight, “Ten’s.”

Johnny’s eyes widened in alarm and he uncrumpled himself. “What? She said that?” he asked, skeptical. Everyone nodded. Johnny narrowed his eyes, dropped his voice to a whisper, and asked, “And you believe her?”

Taeyong was unsure how to respond to that. He stared blankly at Johnny’s incredulous expression, gears turning in his head, question marks spinning behind his eyes. Johnny suddenly doubled over and began to laugh so loudly it could be heard clearly over the cars roaring by right next to them.

“You all . . . are idiots!” Johnny hollered. “I’ve had enough pregnancy scares throughout my sex life to know how a goddamn pregnancy test works! Results don’t show up within hours, everyone knows that. It takes days, at least! She really tried to claim it’s Ten’s baby?”

Taeyong sat back and plopped down on his butt. “You’re saying it isn’t his?”

“No!” Johnny cracked up some more. “If she said it’s Ten’s, she’s even crazier than I thought. There’s no way it could be his. She probably knew she was pregnant weeks ago, and is trying to blame Ten-ssi so she can get some coin. That witch.”

“You think she cheated on you before all this?” Mark asked, eyes wide.

Johnny huffed. “Oh, without a doubt. She probably fucked some guy behind my back and ended up getting knocked up. What a joke. This was likely some big scheme of hers. Ha!”

Yuta tilted his head. “Why didn’t she just have sex with you and tell you it’s your baby? Wouldn’t that have been easier?”

Johnny shrugged. “Yeah, but Ten-ssi is rolling in dough, I’m not. If she can mooch a fat child support cheque out of anyone, it’s him. Not to mention I already told her I never forget condoms because I’m not a fucking idiot.”

Taeyong laughed halfheartedly. He’d missed Johnny’s bitterness dearly, and even though it came from a place of hurt, it still filled a void that had been dug somewhere inside him. “This . . . is such a fucking mess, huh?” he chuckled.

“You said it. Oh, speaking of condoms, I found a used one in my guest bedroom,” Johnny said. “Used . . . and empty. So, not only is it more evidence to suggest the baby isn’t Ten-ssi’s, but it also shows that whatever they did, Ten-ssi didn’t enjoy it.”

Taeyong felt tears prick at his eyes again, and he tugged at a fistful of hair in frustration. “Damn it, what have I done?” he cried. “I was so mean to Ten-hyung . . . I treated him like dirt, and it turns out he’s just as much of a victim as you! I’m so stupid . . . !”

Johnny crawled over and patted Taeyong on the back. “Okay, first of all, there’s only one person allowed to be depressed at a time here and you’re kind of stealing my spotlight,” he said jokingly. “Secondly, relax. Ten-ssi will forgive you. You had a right to be mad.”

Taeyong hung his head. “How can I even face him?” 

Johnny suddenly got that glint in his eye that suggested he was up to something mischievous. “You may not have a choice,” he murmured ominously.

Taeyong couldn’t even begin to guess what he meant.

***

Taeil drove everyone home, and while it seemed he still needed some time, Johnny insisted he would be okay. Taeyong fell face-first onto his couch as soon as he got inside, before he even had a chance to take off his shoes. It had been a very long two days.

He thought about where Minsoo and Chittaphon might have gone. Would they have run off together? Could they even look each other in the eye? Taeyong, for the first time ever, counted his blessings that God had made him gay. At least he never has to worry about accidentally creating life while in the heat of the moment.

He checked his phone idly. To his surprise, there was a solitary, final text from Johnny that had been received eight minutes prior. It read:

4월 17일, 7:57 오후  
천만에요~ (You’re welcome~)

Before he could even type an all-question-mark reply, someone buzzed his apartment. Suspiciously, Taeyong lifted his own dead weight off the couch and trudged to answer the buzzing. Pressing a button, he muttered into the receiver, “Who’s there?”

“T-Taeyongie?” said a soft, scared voice on the other end. Taeyong’s heart skipped a beat. “It’s me, Chittaphon . . . I just—”

“Come up,” Taeyong said shortly, and buzzed him in.

Nerves squirmed around his insides as he stood watching the door. He knew Chittaphon would arrive any second. He planned what he would say. “So, you’ve come to apologize?”—No, too harsh. “It’s not your baby!”—No, no, that’s jumping ahead a little. “Please forgive me!”—Argh! No good, no good!

Taeyong was so distracted that when small knocks sounded he got startled and tripped over his own feet on the way to open the door. When he swung open the door, breathless, and was faced with Chittaphon’s defeated expression and tear-streaked face, everything he thought he might say evaporated, and his mind went blank.

Chittaphon bit his lip. “Taeyong, I—”

Everything else he was going to say was drowned in a shocked, muffled noise as Taeyong jumped forward and pulled Chittaphon into a desperate kiss. Chittaphon got over his surprise and melted under Taeyong’s lips, hands coming up to cup his face, eyes squeezing shut and pushing more tears out. They stayed like that, in the doorway, for a long time, until they were interrupted by the sound of plastic rustling and items dropping to the carpeted floor one-by-one.

They pulled apart quickly, and Taeyong peeked out to see his neighbour standing over two fallen grocery bags, her vegetables fanned out and rolling down the hall. She stared at him in horrified confusion, until he chuckled awkwardly and pulled Chittaphon inside, slamming the door behind them.

Chittaphon, back against the door, grasped him by the collar and tugged him close, stealing his mouth in another long, messy, sloppy kiss. “God, I missed you so much,” he mumbled against Taeyong’s lips, breath hot and coming out in short, rapid bursts.

Taeyong smiled, feeling euphoria rush to his head, like he was high on ecstasy and molly and heroine all at once and more. He playfully smacked Chittaphon on the cheek, giggling, “Don’t ever . . . get drunk . . . with any of Johnny’s girlfriends . . . ever . . . again!”

Chittaphon smiled giddily. “Okay, I won’t. Pinkie-promise?”

Taeyong pulled him into a sweet kiss once more. “Shut up, asshole.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BONUS: Sample of my WIP novel, "Blackmarked"
> 
> “Stay here. I’m going to get some vegetables.”  
>  He watched his mother disappear into the thick crowd of people, all in ragged clothes and looking weary. The ground was slick with mud from the rains, which had finally stopped after months of incessant wetness—but not for long, if the rolling clouds on the horizon were anything to go by. He was young at this time, only seven years old, but in a place like Blackmarch, no-one stays young for long.   
>  On both sides, run-down buildings rose high into the sky, once home to offices and businesses but now vacant and in ruin. In the crowded streets, where pavement had been mostly scraped away, the edges were lined with tented tabletop shops, each tended by a lonely merchant in rags. Some sold fish, some offered meats or fruit and vegetables, some only had small trinkets and keepsakes on display. Those were ignored by most.  
>  He stood sheepishly in the middle of the road, unsure what else to do. Civilians pushed and shoved past him, trying to get their share of the food stocks before they’re depleted. He stood on his tiptoes to try and spot where his mother had gone, but she was lost among all the hanging brown heads. Up above, where the sun shone just barely over the skyscrapers, he thought he could see a shrouded figure creeping along the edge, as if perched like a bird of prey. He was used to seeing dark shapes roaming about in the night, but this time, something was different.  
>  “Watch out! Move! Get out of the way!”  
>  He turned to the disturbance. A commotion was stirring the crowd up the street—a man’s voice yelling at the top of his lungs, shocked gasps and scraping as people jumped back to let him through. The young boy stood on his tiptoes once more, to see what could be barrelling through the market in such a manner.  
>  “What a fuss!” said a woman nearby. “What’s he doing being so loud this early in the day?”  
>  The crowd was parting like the Red Sea. It was getting closer, the yelling increasing in volume, except it was no longer angry—it was desperate.  
>  “Someone, please! You have to help me! Please, help me!”  
>  Confused and wary voices jumbled together into a pile of aching noise. Everyone had stopped pushing and shoving in favour of shuffling feebly or standing off to the side. Two older ladies to his left gasped in shock as one was swept to the side, her basket of vegetables toppling out of her hands and into the muck. A man, with disheveled hair and a bare, scarred chest came charging through, eyes wild and terrified. He grabbed the young boy’s shoulders with his dirty, calloused hands and gripped him tightly, pulling him closer as he fell to his knees and began to weep.  
>  “Please, little boy, help me,” he begged, “you’re small, but you must be able to call them? The angels? You’re one of them! Get help!”  
>  Uneasily, he tucked his tiny wings behind his back. Even though he may have the feathered appendages, he had never seen another with them, and he didn’t know how to find them. He could not help this man.  
>  “Hey, that’s the angel boy!” said someone in the crowd.  
>  “The one with wings! Karaiel!” said another.  
>  People began to gather around, making a tight circle around the man and boy, all vying for a peek at the wings. A hand reached out from the throng to gingerly touch his feathers, and soon more hands joined, petting him like a zoo animal.  
>  “I’m sorry sir, I don’t know how to help you,” he said, in a small voice. “What’s the matter?”  
>  The man gulped, his large Adam’s apple bobbing behind stubbly skin, and he carefully stood, his right hand closed in a tight fist. Many eyes watched carefully as the man opened this fist, revealing his palm to the open air . . . and the large, black dot that was painted there.  
>  “He’s been blackmarked!” shrieked a woman from the crowd.  
>  “Get back!” hollered a man.  
>  Suddenly, the circle became very large, as everyone scurried back in unison, getting as far away as possible. People pressed themselves against the stone walls of the buildings, hiding behind each other, those in the front trying to cut through to distance themselves from the man.   
>  “Wait! Listen to me!” he begged again, eyes misty with tears. When he stepped in one direction, those ahead of him would cry out in horrified voices and shuffle back, cowering fearfully. He carded hands through his knotted hair and bit his lip until it bled, desperate and despairing. The young boy didn’t understand.  
>  From somewhere above, a huge fireball came down from the sky, engulfing the man in flame. He shrieked in horror as his flesh was feasted on by fire, bringing a sinister glow to the dreary marketplace. Shocked and terrified eyes watched from every angle, but nobody lifted a finger—there was nothing they could do to help him. It was over.


	21. The Scent of Sweet Candy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> She's baaaa~aaaack!
> 
> I'm happy you all seemed to like the sample of my WIP, "Blackmarked". It's an idea I've been working on for a while (´・ω・`)
> 
> So I've comprised a list of some songs you could listen to that make me think of this story. Some may apply to Tae & Ten, some to Johnny, some to Ten & Soomi, whatever comes to mind when you listen. Allow me to share~
> 
> Sweet:  
> "All Of Me" by John Legend  
> "Born to Die" by Lana Del Rey  
> "Can't Help Falling in Love" by Elvis Presley  
> "Cedarwood Road" by U2  
> "For You" by Tin Sparrow (Marcus Layton remix)  
> "I'd Come For You" by Nickelback (bite me)  
> "I'm Yours" by Jason Mraz  
> "National Anthem" by Lana Del Rey  
> "A Thousand Years" by Christina Perri  
> "Wanderlust" by The Weeknd 
> 
> Sad:  
> "Angeles" by Elliot Smith (cover by Jensen Ackles & Steve Carlton)  
> "Black Dahlia" by Hollywood Undead  
> "Call Me" by Shinedown  
> "Harder Than Stone" by City and Colour  
> "Nicotine" by Panic! At The Disco  
> "Song For Someone" by U2  
> "Stolen Dance" by Milky Chance  
> "The Troubles" by U2 
> 
> Sexy:  
> "Baby Don't Stop" by TxT (obviously)  
> "Beast" by Mia Martina (ft. Waka Flocka)  
> "Black and Blue" by A.C.E (Jun & Wow)  
> "Don't Stop" by SHINee  
> "Empire" by Shakira  
> "Euphoria" by Usher  
> "Flesh" by Simon Curtis  
> "F*ck You Betta" by Neon Hitch  
> "Guilty As Sin" by Dan Talevski  
> "Love Me Like You Do" by Ellie Goulding 
> 
> So anyway without further ado,
> 
> Enjoy the chapter (´,,•ω•,,)

Taeyong set a cup of steaming green tea down on the coffee table. Chittaphon was shaken from his thoughts by the soft ‘clink’ of the glass, and he looked up at Taeyong, eyes wrought with concern and guilt. Taeyong sat next to him and looked at him gently, unsure where to start.

“I shouldn’t have been so harsh,” he said quietly, “I was mean. I’m sorry.”

Chittaphon inched closer and brought Taeyong in for another short, sweet kiss. “I understand why you were upset,” he said softly, “I was so mad at myself . . . I know I hurt you, and Johnny-ssi, and everyone else. I can’t believe I—”

“It wasn’t your fault.” Taeyong took him by the hands and looked him deeply in the eyes. “It was like how Xukun took advantage of my drunk state . . . You didn’t know what you were doing.”

Chittaphon’s face screwed up angrily and he squeezed Taeyong’s hands tightly. “But I knew how she felt about me! She made her affections so obvious, and yet I still let my guard down. Now she’s pregnant with my kid . . . God, what am I going to do?”

Chittaphon’s head drooped and he began to cry, tears dripping onto their intertwined hands. Taeyong’s eyes widened, and he reached forward to touch Chittaphon’s chin and lift his head. His eyes were cloudy and his lips pouted, and he seemed so lost and broken.

“Ten-hyung, Ten-hyung . . .” Taeyong mumbled, touching their foreheads together and cupping his face in both hands. “It isn’t your baby. It can’t be. Johnny says she used a condom, and anyway the test wouldn’t show up so quickly . . . She’d cheated on Johnny beforehand. She’s a liar.”

Chittaphon’s breath hitched and his eyes widened, and he let out a relieved, disbelieving exhale. “Really? You’re sure?” Taeyong nodded. “Thank God . . .”

He sat back with a sigh and took a sip of his tea. “I should quit drinking,” he said, squaring his jaw. 

Taeyong chuckled. “No need to be so extreme,” he countered, “just, maybe . . . in moderation, from now on?”

Chittaphon gave a faraway smile. “Yeah. And only with people I can trust. No more getting blackout drunk—I need to have control over my actions.”

Taeyong took his hand again and turned his head toward him. “Sounds good,” he murmured, swallowing thickly, eyes drifting downward. He looked back up. “Are you okay?”

Chittaphon set his shoulders and huffed. “I guess so,” he said tiredly. “I just . . . Even though I don’t remember anything, I can’t shake the thought of her hands on me. I just feel . . . wrong. Violated.”

“I know what you mean,” Taeyong muttered, the sickly taste of expensive champagne creeping into his mouth. “She wasn’t even that drunk. She had, like, one beer. There’s no excuse . . .”

Chittaphon interrupted him by stooping closer and stealing his lips in a sudden, hot kiss. He pulled back, only a few centimetres, breathing warm breaths against Taeyong’s mouth. “I . . . I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” he said. “I missed you so much. I just . . .”

Taeyong grabbed him by the jaw and pressed their lips together again, moaning softly at the contact, squeezing his eyes shut. Every nerve felt like it was on fire, every movement evoking exciting sensations all across his skin. Chittaphon grabbed fistfuls of his shirt and tugged him closer, scooching back and turning his body toward Taeyong, inviting him tantalizingly to do more.

Taeyong crawled forward into his lap, straddling him with a knee on either side of his hips, pressing their pelvises into each other. Chittaphon groaned softly and bit Taeyong’s bottom lip, and then their tongues were tangling together, kisses becoming quicker and deeper and messier. Taeyong shuddered as he felt a hard twitch beneath his own growing erection.

Chittaphon slid his hands down Taeyong’s sides, letting them rest at his thighs for a few moments while Taeyong let his fingers run roughly through Chittaphon’s hair. Then, as their lips crashed together and held in a long lock and their hips rocked against each other, he dragged his fingers up slowly and teased at the hem of Taeyong’s shirt, gently touching the skin underneath.

Taeyong pulled away and sat still and heavy on Chittaphon’s legs, chest heaving and breaths coming out in laboured, hot bursts. “Do you really want this?” he asked, words weighted on his tongue. “I mean . . . Are you sure? I don’t just want this to be some kind of escape for you . . .”

Chittaphon put his hands up Taeyong’s shirt and squeezed his waist, eyes half-closed and filled with some kind of need. “I want you, Taeyong-ah,” he stated seriously, in a gruff voice. “I really want this. I want to touch you and feel you and have you . . . I thought you would never talk to me again and that was the worst part of all this. Now that you’re here with me, like this, I’m so . . . I’m so happy, I . . .”

Taeyong let out a shaky breath, his eyes misty. “I want you too,” he whispered. “You can feel it, can’t you? My heartbeat? My . . .”

Chittaphon took him by the hips and pressed their fronts together, grinding against him. “Yeah. I can feel that. It’s driving me crazy. I want to make you feel . . . so good . . .”

Taeyong stooped down and kissed him again, moaning low and deep in his throat. Chittaphon’s hands moved forward and began undoing his belt, slowly opening his jeans before running a hand up his stomach. Taeyong’s skin was a bubbling inferno, tingling everywhere, heat flashes coming in waves. He pressed his forehead against Chittaphon’s and panted sweetly as soft fingers teased at the hard bulge in his briefs, and he felt like he would melt.

“Let’s get these off,” Chittaphon murmured, tipping Taeyong onto his back and wriggling his tight jeans off. He licked his lips and left wet kisses along the hemline of his briefs as he tossed the apparel over the back of the couch, other hand trailing up his chest just to drag his nails down gently. Taeyong shivered and bit his tongue to hold back any sounds, fists gripping the fabric of the couch. 

Chittaphon sat up and took his own shirt off quickly, tossing it away. He crouched down again to suck little red marks onto Taeyong’s inner thighs, evoking subtle but sexy reactions. Taeyong’s head tipped back and he fumbled with his shirt, feeling far too hot to have it on. Chittaphon noticed his struggle and helped him work the article of clothing off, throwing it away haphazardly. 

“We are so bad at keeping promises,” Taeyong giggled as the author left soft kisses along his collarbone.

Chittaphon snorted, smirking. “Whatever,” he quipped, tugging at the elastic of Taeyong’s underwear. “May I?”

Taeyong nodded, and the offending fabric was slowly dragged down his legs and off his feet. Chittaphon drew the elastic back like a band and sent them flying across the room, only to land on the TV and hang there. 

Taeyong giggled cutely and sat up, strangely not feeling shy at all. Instead, he made quick work of Chittaphon’s pants and helped him remove them, pulling his boxers off at the same time. He bit his lips at the sight—it was standing tall and proud, the tip red and leaking; tiny, spiky hairs peppered the surrounding area, leading to a prominent line up to his belly button. Taeyong crept closer, pushing Chittaphon back by his shoulders, and he nestled himself in the crook of his neck.

“Tennie,” he murmured sweetly, “can I . . . suck it?”

Chittaphon drew in a sharp breath and his grip tightened around Taeyong’s leg. “God, Taeyong-ah, I would love that so much, but . . .” he stalled, giving a dejected sigh. “Another time. I’m too close now, I want to be inside you . . .”

Taeyong wriggled free and stood up, walking down the hall to his bedroom, leaving a confused Chittaphon behind. When he returned, he had a tall bottle of lubricant in hand, which he set down on the table next to the abandoned tea.

“That’s . . . a lot of lube,” Chittaphon commented, eyes squinting, the corners of his mouth turning up teasingly, “virgin.”

Taeyong rolled his eyes. “Shut up, you. Be glad I have it. Otherwise, this would be very uncomfortable.”

Chittaphon pulled Taeyong into his lap again, their hard-ons brushing together, making Taeyong pant softly. He squirted a generous amount of lube onto his hand and leaned Taeyong closer to him, exposing his backside. 

Taeyong gasped. “Wait, you’re doing it like this? This is—!”

Chittaphon circled a slicked finger around Taeyong’s entrance while biting hickeys onto his neck, his other hand teasing one of Taeyong’s nipples. It was all too much, combined to the closeness of their lengths, and Taeyong struggled to breathe properly. He dug his nails into Chittaphon’s shoulder as a single appendage was gradually inserted, and he squirmed gently at the intrusion.

“As much as I love teasing you,” Chittaphon whispered in a gruff voice, “all this preparation drives me nuts. I want to make love to you, I can’t wait—”

“Then don’t,” Taeyong breathed, looking him in the eyes. “I can take it.”

Chittaphon’s head lolled back and he shut his eyes, letting out a shaky breath. “God, you’re so cute,” he said with a smile, “but I don’t want to hurt you . . .”

Taeyong rolled his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he teased, and gave him a brisk kiss. “I said I can take it. I’ll be fine. Just go slow.”

Chittaphon removed his finger and brought Taeyong in for another sweet kiss. “If you’re sure . . .” he mumbled, receiving silent confirmation before he cleared his throat and held Taeyong by the hips. “Sit up,” he ordered.

Taeyong did as he was told, sliding back an inch and suspending himself on his knees. Chittaphon positioned himself and gently guided Taeyong down, until his tip lightly kissed his entrance, and Taeyong shuddered.

“Breathe, baby, relax,” Chittaphon said, sliding his hands up Taeyong’s sides as he set his hips and pushed. Taeyong let his weight fall, wrapping his arms around Chittaphon’s neck for comfort as he was stretched savagely open, split in two. He let out a long, laboured breath when he was fully seated, the entirety of Chittaphon’s length tucked neatly inside him.

“Wow, holy shit,” Chittaphon grunted, teeth clenched, hands squeezing Taeyong’s waist. “Are you . . . okay?”

Taeyong sat back and let his head fall, exposing the expanse of his neck. “. . . Ow,” he squeaked, digging his nails into Chittaphon’s skin again. “It . . . hurts . . . Ah—”

“I’m sorry,” Chittaphon said worriedly, eyebrows turned up in concern. “Maybe this wasn’t— Uh, yikes . . . I’ll pull out—”

“No!” Taeyong’s head snapped up and he gave Chittaphon a pleading look. “No, don’t . . . It hurts good, I— Ah, God . . .”

Chittaphon smirked and gave him a dirty look. “You’re a little freaky,” he droned, a low growl coming from his throat. “I like you more and more every day.”

Taeyong smiled weakly, trembling, breathing through the dull ache that traveled up his body. He felt exhilirated, his head abuzz, thoughts jumbled and bouncing all over the place. A month ago, he was an inexperienced virgin who could only dream of sex. Now, only one clear thought could pick its way out of the mess inside his mushy brain—it was better than he’d ever imagined.

“I want— God, I’m already close . . .” he mumbled, burying his face in Chittaphon’s neck. His insides throbbed around the foreign addition, and it twitched back in response, sending chills up Taeyong’s spine and heat all over his skin. He muddled his hands in Chittaphon’s hair and gripped on tight, bringing his face close and kissing him deeply, messily, wetly, sucking Heaven into his mouth that tasted like green tea.

“How do you feel?” Chittaphon muttered, pupils blown and cheeks ruddy. “Can I move?”

Taeyong grinned and drew in a shaky inhale, then lifted his weight slowly, only to rock back down again with a quiet mewl. Chittaphon licked his lips, gripped Taeyong’s skin harshly, and drew up his knees to give himself more wiggle room. Taeyong rocked up again, and down again, starting off a rhythm that Chittaphon quickly matched with gentle, upward thrusts. Their forces met in the middle, crushing Chittaphon’s member in deep, pushing it fiercely into that sweet spot, forcing a choked moan out of Taeyong’s chest.

“Ungh— Ten-hyu . . . Ah, it feels . . . Amazing . . .” he whimpered, voice shaking with his heartbeat. He brought himself down once more and rested there, gyrating his hips in circular motions, drawing sharp breaths out of Chittaphon’s nose.

“Don’t . . . Oh, don’t tease me like this, you devil,” Chittaphon groaned, gritting his teeth. “You’re so . . . incredibly . . . wonderfully tight, I— I’m so deep . . . inside . . .”

Taeyong whimpered again and bit his bottom lip, eyebrows knotting together as white-hot pleasure pooled in the pit of his stomach. He kissed Chittaphon, with all the ferocity and tongue and teeth of a man crazed, drawing his body up and giving the author rein to snap his hips, closing the distance, making Taeyong shiver and make all manner of obscene sounds. He let his weight down again and drew back, hands braced on Chittaphon’s shoulders, arching his back to bring his backside up, then dropping it back down, increasing in speed until he was bouncing with reckless abandon, head back and mouth open, hot breaths and moans pouring out with nothing to hold them back.

Chittaphon pulled their chests together and sunk his teeth into Taeyong’s exposed neck, biting and sucking red circles into the tender skin, nails scratching up and down his back, animalistic growls coming from his throat with every thrust. It was hot and crude and wild, but they’d lost all need to care, minds surrendered to their bodies’ most primal desires.

Taeyong squeezed his thighs together, body shaking madly, tremors traveling through every muscle as his orgasm hit him like a freight train. He let out a desperate cry as their fronts were painted with his fluid, coming out in rapid bursts, splattering thickly until he was spent. 

“Mmn . . .” Chittaphon hummed, grizzled, slowing his movements, running his hands up Taeyong’s arms and giving him a soft kiss. “Good?”

“Yes, hah~ . . .” Taeyong sighed, letting his head rest on Chittaphon’s shoulder. “Yes, so . . . Hn, so good . . . But you didn’t—”

Chittaphon groaned, his member twitching fervently. “You seem tired, but . . . Can I—? Or are you done? It’s okay if—”

“No, I want you to finish,” Taeyong insisted, “inside. Go ahead.”

Chittaphon inhaled deeply and gave Taeyong a thankful kiss. Then, his aura changed—his shoulders set, he took Taeyong by the waist and flipped him onto his back in one swift motion, stooping over him and driving every inch back in, making Taeyong’s back go rigid and his eyes roll into his head and his toes curl against his will. Chittaphon brought himself as close as he could and began to thrust again, ejecting loud cries from Taeyong, who was wrecked and sweaty but so sweetly into the thick of it all. 

“Fuck!” Taeyong swore, jaw permanently open, nails embedded in the skin of Chittaphon’s back. “Ten-hyung, it’s so— I’m so . . . sensitive—! I can’t take it, it’s too much—!”

Chittaphon whispered sensually into his ear, “You don’t have to be so formal.”

“Ten-ah!” Taeyong screamed, giddy, joyful yet at the end of his rope. “It’s so—hng—good! You’re going to make me—ah—again . . . !”

And he was coming, again, spots clouding his vision and fuzziness filling his head as he felt it jerk out of him, splash up his chest like water bursting from a balloon. Chittaphon’s eyes were closed tightly, his head craned low, until he finally went still and, with a sexy, deep grunt, soiled Taeyong’s insides with everything his body had in him.

Chittaphon panted; hot, open-mouthed exhales, like a dog on a hot day. Then, he pulled back, sat up on his knees and pushed the sweat-slicked hair off his forehead. Taeyong was sapped of all energy, feeling like he had no bones or muscles—he was just jelly. The author gave a weak, breathless laugh and draped his equally-tired body over Taeyong, lying there for several minutes as he came down off the ecstasy.

“I feel like pudding,” Taeyong muttered light-heartedly, giggling. “How . . . can you be so . . . good at that?”

Chittaphon sat up and shrugged smugly. “Would you slap me if I said ‘practice’?”

Taeyong mustered what little strength he had to sit up, too. “Careful, I just might,” he teased. “Now let’s clean up before I pass out.”

***

The covers were warm, warmer than usual. Early-morning sunlight shone in his eyes, cascading through the window and bathing the dark room in yellow. He stirred, feeling the heat on his face, and groaned as he reached up to rub his eyes.

He peeked open one eye. His body felt like it had become part of the mattress, but at least he wasn’t sticky or crusty, like before. He was clean, and there was a glow within him, resonating from his core. He shifted, turning onto his side, coming face-to-face with another beside him.

“Morning, sunshine,” Chittaphon mumbled sleepily, smiling. “How do you feel?”

“Like I do not want to go to work,” Taeyong groaned. “I don’t think I can walk. Really. I’m a mess and a half.”

Chittaphon chuckled into the pillow, sighing. “Job well done,” he mused, with a wink. “You could call in sick?”

Taeyong snorted. “Don’t tempt me. I need the hours—rent’s due this week.”

“I’ll pay it,” said Chittaphon, as he rolled onto Taeyong and pinned him beneath him. He stooped low to whisper into his ear, “Without work to get to, we could have time for a quickie . . .”

Taeyong pushed him off gently with a laugh. “I think I would literally die of overstimulation,” he said. “They’d have to tell people at my funeral, ‘He died because the dick was too bomb’ . . . Not how I want to go.”

Chittaphon smirked and let out a chuckle that sounded more like a ‘mrrow.’ “Mm, okay, workaholic. Get dressed, I’ll drive you.”

Taeyong wore jeans with rips at the knees, sneakers, a simple graphic tee, and a jean jacket. Chittaphon was stuck with the same outfit he had on the previous day, which he had to collect off the living room floor and attempt to smooth out enough to look presentable. They drove in his Bentley to the publishing firm, tired but comfortable silence the only thing shared between them.

Walking into the workroom together, they attracted many curious gazes. Yuta, Mark, Taeil, and Max were all seated around the table, distracted from their jobs by the sound of the door opening. No-one spoke for several seconds at first, until Max piped up.

“Uh, excuse my nosiness,” he said, “but weren’t you two . . . fighting?”

Taeyong and Chittaphon exchanged a glance. “We . . . talked,” said the author, after a pause.

“You’re wearing the same thing as yesterday,” Mark pointed out. “He never wears the same thing twice. Does he?”

“Let’s not delve into his private life,” said Yuta, with a warning glance at Mark and a gesture at the presence of Max. “Could be he hasn’t had a chance to do laundry.”

Taeyong looked around the room, feeling something was missing. “Johnny’s . . . not here?”

Taeil shook his head. “No. Max is filling in for him today. He texted me, hold on—”

4월 18일, 5:34 오전  
태일씨, 오늘 일하지 않을거야 (Taeil-ssi, I won’t be at work today)  
난 아직도 시간이 필요해, (I still need time,)  
내 마음에는 많은 것이있어 (There is a lot on my mind)  
미안 (Sorry)

Taeyong read over the texts, swallowing thickly. “He sent that at five in the morning?” he asked. Taeil nodded solemnly.

“He probably isn’t getting much sleep,” Mark noted.

Chittaphon looked at the floor, his hands closing into fists. “I just— I’m so sorry. I hate myself. Johnny . . .”

“Shush. He’s forgiven you,” Yuta insisted, patting his shoulder. “Now forgive yourself. Time will pass, he will heal. He always does.”

Taeyong sat at the seat next to Max with a heavy sigh and began sifting through the paperwork he’d been putting off. Max was giving him a strange look, eyes locked on the ravaged skin of his neck.

Taeyong looked up. “What?” he asked.

“Uh— It’s nothing,” Max said quickly, looking away with a cough.

Chittaphon sat next to Taeyong and stared at the tabletop for a long time, playing with his own fingers. “Are you sure Johnny will be okay?” he asked feebly.

“In my understanding, this happens a lot,” Max mentioned, and Mark confirmed with a nod. “This isn’t the first time I’ve covered for that guy. He’ll be fine. He just needs time.”

A knock at the door interrupted whatever else might’ve been said. Yuta, who was closest to the door, opened it with little regard as to who was there, as he was too busy with the mounds of papers in his hands. Taeyong watched a fresh face nervously shuffle in, arms loaded with binders and notebooks.

“Uh, h-hi, Department 5?” asked the arrival. It was a girl, roughly their age, likely a new-hire or intern. She had broad shoulders and was a tad tall, and had very strong features from her facial structure to her not-so-dainty hands. “Who’s the chief editor here?”

“I am,” Taeyong stood up authoritatively and walked over to her, bowing curtly. “I’m Lee Tae Yong. You are?”

She returned his bow. “Lee Hwi Young, I work in sales. I just got transferred here from Treble Publishing House. I’ve been assigned to departments four through seven.”

Chittaphon stood up suddenly, his chair screeching backward. “Treble? You worked at Treble? Do you . . . Do you by chance know a Kim Soo Mi?”

Taeyong narrowed his eyes, his jaw squaring, but he said nothing.

“Uh, n-not personally, sir . . . Why?” Hwiyoung mumbled.

Chittaphon looked sad for a moment, but shook his head and sat back down. “Nothing. Nevermind.”

Hwiyoung cleared her throat awkwardly. “Well, anyway . . . I understand there is a Lee Tae Yong, a Nakamoto Yuta, a Mark Lee, a Lee Tae Il, and a Seo Young Ho here?”

Max stood up and ducked his head respectfully. “I’m Shim Chang Min, I’m filling in for Youngho-ssi today. He’s feeling . . . under the weather.”

“Yeah,” Taeyong nodded. “Otherwise, that’s Taeil, Mark, and Yuta. Everyone calls Youngho ‘Johnny,’ by the way. He seldom uses his legal name.”

“I see,” Hwiyoung hummed understandingly, taking a mental note of the names and faces. “And . . . who is that?”

She gestured to Chittaphon. He looked up, pointed at himself, and upon receiving a nod, stood up. “I’m Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul, I’m an author. I have an office down the hall but I usually stick around here. Taeyong is my editor.”

“Right . . . Right! You’re the famous author assigned to Department 5,” she reminded herself. “Okay, well, I have the past month’s sales reports right here, if you wouldn’t mind leafing through this when you find the time.”

Hwiyoung plonked a huge 3” ring binder down on the table with a loud huff. “This isn’t all just April, there’s tabs on all the months of 2018 thus far. Once you’ve had a look at that, I can come collect it again. It was nice meeting you all, but I should be going—I still have to check on departments six and seven. Good day!”

And with that, she turned and left, shutting the door behind her. Taeyong exchanges indifferent glances with Yuta and Mark, before shrugging and plopping himself back down at his seat.

“Were you hoping she would know Soomi?” he asked quietly, not looking Chittaphon in the eye.

“No, I just—” he sighed heavily. “Treble Publishing . . . I was surprised. It’s not like I want to see her again, ever, it’s . . . something else. Don’t concern yourself, it’s not that important.”

Taeyong got back to work without another word. The day went by in strange silence, as nobody knew how much they could say with Max in the room, so all kept their mouths shut except for matters concerning work. When it was time to clock out, Taeyong began packing up his things, and Yuta approached him with a sunny smile.

“Hey Taeyongie, Ten-goon, are you free tonight? Want to join Sicheng-ah and me for dinner?” he asked breezily, ruffling his hair.

“What, like a double-date?” Chittaphon asked, an edge to his tone.

Yuta squirmed. “Er . . . I guess so? Yeah, kind of like a . . . double-date . . .”

Chittaphon stood up and slung his bag over his shoulder, then passed Yuta an easy smile. “Sure. Sounds like fun.”

***

“So, what did you two really get up to last night?” 

Taeyong paused mid-chew, returning Yuta’s accusatory glance. They’d ended up at a quaint Szechuan-style restaurant across town, with nice mood lighting and sizzling smells wafting from the kitchen. Sicheng and Yuta sat across from them at a booth, each with a half-finished plate in front of them.

Taeyong and Chittaphon exchanged a look. “. . . Forgiveness,” Taeyong said, with a cough, “let’s leave it at that.”

“That’s a lot of hickeys,” Sicheng mumbled quietly, looking at his plate.

Taeyong flushed red as a beet, bringing up a hand to cover his neck. Chittaphon grinned proudly, reviewing his handiwork.

It was quiet for a few moments, the sounds of chewing and smacking the only words passed at the table. Then, Sicheng reached his left hand forward to grab a napkin to wipe his face, and Taeyong’s eyes widened as he spotted a golden band around his ring finger, twinkling in the lamplight.

“I didn’t know you were much for jewelry,” Taeyong pointed out, gesturing to the ring. Sicheng gasped and covered up his hand, flushing pinkish.

“I-I’m not . . .” he admitted. “Y-Yuta-yah gave this to me . . .”

Taeyong gave Yuta a soft and surprised look, and he shrugged. “It’s a promise ring,” Yuta announced. “Losing him in Wenzhou . . . It made me realize how much I need him with me. Marriage isn’t an option, yet, but as soon as it is I’m making him mine.”

Sicheng smiled sweetly. “He got it engraved with the Mandarin characters for ‘I love you,’” he said, batting his eyelashes.

“Aww . . . Blegh!” Chittaphon teased, sticking his tongue out and making a puking sound. “You guys are cute . . . in a sappy way.”

Taeyong elbowed him playfully. “Be nice,” he warned, with a small smile.

Just then, his phone buzzed in his pocket. “Excuse me,” he said, bringing it out to check it. It was a text . . . from Johnny.

4월 18일, 7:58 오후  
태용이 바쁘니? (Taeyongie are you busy?)  
내 집에 올 수 있니? (Can you come to my house?)  
지금? (Now?)

“It’s Johnny,” he said, with bated breath. “He wants me to go over. It seems important. Sorry, I should . . .”

“Yeah, you should go. Sounds like he needs you,” said Chittaphon. “I’ll cover your bill. Go.”

Taeyong dipped his head in thanks and waved as he ducked out of the booth and rushed to the door. Johnny’s house wasn’t far, only a short bus ride, so he typed up a quick response.

4월 18일, 8:01 오후  
응, 난 가고있어 (Yes, I’m on my way)  
괜찮아? (Are you okay?)

Johnny responded immediately.

4월 18일, 8:01 오후  
괜찮아. (I’m okay.)

Once he was off the bus, he speed-walked down a few side-streets until Johnny’s house was in view. Even with him saying he was okay, Taeyong still worried. It wasn’t like Johnny to suddenly call him over, and considering all that had happened, Taeyong couldn’t even imagine the reason.

Taeyong knocked on the door. “It’s open, you can come in,” came a voice from inside. Uneasily, he turned the knob and let himself in, creeping into the foyer and kicking off his shoes.

“Johnny?” he called out. A hand came up from the couch, so he approached. Johnny was lying there in nothing but grey sweatpants, his phone on his stomach. His hair was a greasy mess, he had bags under his eyes, and he looked like he hadn’t moved for hours.

“Johnny,” Taeyong breathed. “What’s going on?”

“Have a seat,” Johnny said, voice hoarse like he wasn’t used to talking. He groaned as he pulled himself up to give Taeyong room on the couch. Nervously, Taeyong sat, turning his body toward Johnny and giving him a questioning and concerned look.

“Taeyongie, I’ve been thinking,” he began, leaning forward and bracing his elbows on his knees, “all women do is hurt me. Why do I even keep trying?”

Taeyong blinked, confused. “Huh?”

“Every woman I’ve been with has broken my heart. Every one. You can attest to that,” Johnny said, grimacing. “So, why do I keep trying, when it always ends in pain? What have women ever offered me but hurt?”

Taeyong gulped, eyebrows twisting together. “Johnny, where is this going?”

“I think it’s time for a change,” Johnny declared, turning his body toward Taeyong, one bent knee up on the couch and the other leg dangling off. “Taeyongie . . . can I try something?”

Taeyong narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “. . . Try what?”

Johnny was still, doing nothing for several beats. Then, he exhaled softly, and brought up a hand to cup the side of Taeyong’s face as he gradually leaned closer.

“Johnny, what are you—”

Taeyong was interrupted with a kiss, strong and desperate, from a man whose heart was in pieces. He could feel every break, every crack, every bandage used to put it together, and it was overwhelming. His eyes were wide with shock, as his friend tangled his hand in his hair and pulled him closer, deeper into it. His kiss was rough but his lips were soft and plushy, and he kissed with a rugged delicacy, sending chills throughout Taeyong’s body that permeated and quelled the shock.

Slowly, Taeyong’s eyes fluttered closed.


	22. The Scent of Something New

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!
> 
> I'm so excited as we're about to hit 20,000 views! Woohoo!!!
> 
> One song I forgot to include in the 'sexy' list of songs is "Thirsty" by Taemin. Did anyone listen to the songs from the previous chapter? If so, let me know your favourites in the comments! 
> 
> In other news, I've been so whipped for Na Jaemin lately, it's crazy. I'm so tempted to include some Nomin in this story, but I think it would be a bit too much and kind of unnecessary... We'll see :)
> 
> Enjoy this chapter! ♡(◡‿◡✿)

Slowly, Taeyong let his eyes flutter closed. He made a soft sound against Johnny’s lips, pressing forward into the kiss, letting his hands trail up Johnny’s smooth chest. Every inch of his body was heated up like hellfire, sizzling, giving him goosebumps and a pounding behind his ribs that he could hear in his ears. For a moment, he forgot who he was even kissing, lost in the burn of it all. 

Johnny tilted his head and tipped Taeyong’s jaw upward, drawing him in further, parting his lips and allowing a tongue to roam inside. Everything was quiet besides the wet smacking and the roaring in his head, and he could feel nothing but numbness and the harsh softness of Johnny’s lips.

Suddenly, everything came rushing back to him, and he gained sense of what he was doing. He pushed against Johnny’s chest and tore his face away, looking off to the side and letting out an incredulous exhale. Johnny froze, looking down at his lap.

“What—” Taeyong looked at him, eyebrows skewed, trembling as he came off the high. “Johnny, what on Earth are you doing?”

Johnny scoffed, shaking his head. “You’re right. What am I doing?” he murmured, clearly distraught. “I’m sorry, Taeyong, I don’t—”

“You’re not right. In the head,” Taeyong said quietly, shifting away.

“Hey,” Johnny scowled, glaring at him. “I’m not crazy.”

“Sorry.” Taeyong squeezed the bridge of his nose. “I mean you’re not in the right headspace. You’re heartbroken, and you’re confused. Besides, even if you like men now, you can’t just kiss the only gay guy you know! Just because I’m gay doesn’t mean—”

Johnny held up his hands and sighed. “I know. That wasn’t right. I’m sorry, Taeyong.”

Taeyong huffed deeply, rubbing his temples. “That’s great, and all, if you’re gay,” he started, still skeptical, “but it shouldn’t be because some girl broke your heart. I didn’t choose to be gay because I couldn’t get a date. Johnny, I was bullied in school, you think I would choose that? It’s not a choice. You can’t just—”

Johnny took him by the shoulders. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right and I’m sorry. I don’t know if I’m gay. I don’t know anything anymore, I . . .”

Taeyong rested his face in his hands, stressed. “Even if you are, I’m not the guy you should . . .” He sighed dejectedly. “You don’t love me.”

“You know I do,” Johnny said, seriously, “but . . . not in that way. You’re my best friend, for God’s sake. I won’t play your heart.”

Taeyong breathed, relieved. There was a time when he would’ve killed for this moment, but that was long past him, and circumstances had changed. Now, he wouldn’t trade Johnny’s friendship for anything else in the world.

“You know,” Taeyong chuckled, “I used to have a little bit of a crush on you.”

Johnny’s eyes widened. “You . . . You did?”

“Yeah. Back in school,” Taeyong reminisced. “But then you went and lost your virginity to Yoo Jae In. You went and broke my little heart!”

“Heh, sorry,” Johnny chuckled lightly. “I didn’t . . . hate that. What we just did. You’re a good kisser.”

Taeyong glowed pridefully. “Thanks,” he said, “but you’re a few years too late on that one.”

Johnny shrugged coolly. “Oh well. I guess it wasn’t meant to be.”

They were quiet for a few minutes. Taeyong thought about the days when he was Johnny’s roommate in Uni, and his gay heart would jump when Johnny would come out of the shower all shirtless and steamy, and all manner of dirty things would come into his mind. But then, they got closer, too close for comfort, and Taeyong realized Johnny was a better friend to him than anyone, and he wouldn’t risk that for all the sex that could’ve been.

“I really appreciate you as my friend, Johnny. You’ve done a lot for me,” he said, smiling gratefully. Then, he looked at him seriously. “That’s why I hate to see you like this. So, go take a shower, eat some food, drink some water, and get some sleep.”

Johnny smiled and gave a light laugh. “Yeah, you got it, chief. Thank you. I feel a lot better now.”

Taeyong nodded affirmatively. “Oh, and I’m crashing here. The buses are sketchy at night and I don’t fancy getting mugged.”

Johnny snorted. “You gonna sleep on the guest bed?”

“I’ll take the couch, thanks,” he shuddered.

Johnny stood up and trudged off to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Taeyong blew out a long puff of air, before getting up and going to collect some blankets and pillows. He’ll sleep well, tonight.

***

He knocked three times on the door. It was a sunny Thursday morning, an hour and a half before work was due to start. He rubbed his eyes tiredly, glancing to his left to see Khon Dii curled up comfortably on the porch ledge.

“Sorry. Did I wake you?” he asked. Khon Dii stared at him, unblinking, blank green eyes seeming to look right through him. “You sleep all day,” he huffed, “what are you complaining about?”

The door opened. Chittaphon was standing there in nothing but pajama pants and a small towel over his shoulders, toothbrush poking out of his mouth. He gestured for Taeyong to come in and turned back inside.

“So, tell me why you’ve summoned me here at ass-o’clock in the morning?” Taeyong grumbled, sitting heavily on the couch and leaning back. Chittaphon spat his toothpaste out in the kitchen sink and rinsed his mouth out with tap water.

“It’s already six-thirty! Birds are chirping, the sun is up. You’d sleep through this?” Chittaphon chuckled.

Taeyong glared at him. “Yes. And so would you, you’re practically nocturnal,” he scoffed.

Chittaphon sighed and shook his head. “I wanted to know how Johnny’s doing,” he admitted. “You saw him last night, right?”

Taeyong nodded slowly. He’d slept like a baby on Johnny’s couch after their talk, until he was woken up by his phone ringing at 6 AM. He wondered how much he should tell Chittaphon about what happened, but decided the truth was the easiest thing to explain.

“Yeah, I saw him,” he said carefully. “He’s doing better. He’s coming to work today.”

Chittaphon gulped nervously. “Today? Already? I mean, that’s great and everything, I’m just apprehensive because . . . I haven’t seen him since . . .”

Taeyong gave him a sympathetic look. “He isn’t mad at you. If anyone, he’s mad at her. She’s the one who cheated on him and took advantage of you in his own house. Don’t worry so much, Johnny isn’t an unfair guy.”

Chittaphon nodded slowly, coming over to sit next to Taeyong on the couch. “I hope so. I want to apologize to him properly. Are you sure he’s doing okay?”

“Positive,” Taeyong confirmed. 

“Good,” Chittaphon smiled. “So . . . What did he say? Last night?”

Taeyong stalled. “Erm . . . Well, he, uh . . .” he gulped, inhaling awkwardly. “He kissed me.”

Chittaphon stared at him blankly. “He . . . what?”

“He said he was done with women and he kissed me. We . . . made out a little. Don’t worry, I stopped him,” Taeyong explained hurriedly. “He was just heartbroken and confused. We talked about it, and he feels better now.”

Chittaphon seemed at a loss for words. “You made out with Johnny?” he scoffed incredulously. Then, he licked his lips and leaned in. “Was it . . . good?”

Taeyong flushed pinkish. “I-I mean, he’s a good kisser . . .” he mumbled. “B-But I don’t like him that way, and he was just acting out, so . . .”

Chittaphon raised his eyebrows tauntingly. “You don’t like him ‘that way’? Are you sure? I see the way you look at him sometimes. He’s a good-looking man. That could’ve been your chance.”

“What—! Look, I used to like him, a long time ago. I don’t anymore,” Taeyong insisted. “Besides, it wouldn’t have been right. He was just acting erratic because he’s hurt.”

Chittaphon leaned back with a sly shrug. “I don’t know, Taeyongie. Damaged guys are excellent in bed. You could’ve had some wild, angry sex.”

Taeyong squinted and looked at him weirdly. “Do you . . . want me to have sex with Johnny?”

Chittaphon looked at him hotly. “Can I watch?”

Taeyong’s face twisted up in disgust. “What? No! That’s weird!”

Chittaphon held up his hands innocently. “. . . Kidding.”

Taeyong huffed. “Anyway, did you call me here just to make fun of me?”

Chittaphon got up from the couch and walked over to a workspace on the other side of the room. The desk there had a laptop beneath a mound of papers, books, and writing utensils, as well as a small bowl of cat food. He grabbed a thin paperback novel and brought it over to where Taeyong was sitting, dropping it in his lap.

It was ‘In Words He Trusts,’ by Rune, but this time it had a proper cover and binding, a Table of Contents, and actual printed pages. 

“It’s been published?” he asked.

Chittaphon smiled. “Yes. Rune is officially back from hiatus. Thank you for all your help—I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Taeyong chuckled bashfully. “Oh, come on, now . . . I didn’t do much.”

“You did more than you realize,” Chittaphon said ominously. For a moment, there was something unreadable and faraway behind his eyes; but in a blink it was gone, leaving Taeyong to wonder if it was ever really there.

“Anyway,” Chittaphon smiled, pushing the moment into the past, “shall we get a move on? We do have a job to get to. It’s seven o’clock.”

Taeyong watched him depart down the hallway, slinging the towel off his shoulders as he went. He looked down at the completed novelette in his lap, wondering if he could possibly be more involved in ‘In Words He Trusts’ than he’s aware of. He opened to the first page, where a few words were printed in small font, signed by Rune himself.

“Dedicated to someone very special. You know who you are.”

Taeyong hummed curiously. He felt it was narcissistic to assume that ‘someone special’ was him. The novelette came to existence long before they had ever met, right? Though, it was the first time a Rune novelette had included a dedication of any kind. Coincidence, right?

Sooner than expected, Chittaphon waltzed back into the room, fully dressed head-to-toe in expensive, luxury brands. He had blue ripped jeans rolled up just above brown leather Chelsea ankle boots, a semi-sheer white t-shirt, and a dark chocolate wool blazer. His hair was gelled and styled, he had on modest makeup, and he smelled like Dior cologne.

“You sure clean up fast,” Taeyong mumbled, scanning him up and down. 

Chittaphon shrugged. “What can I say? I’m efficiently stylish,” he boasted. “Now, let’s go. I’ll drive.”

Taeyong considered insisting on driving his own car to work, before he remembered having parked it over a block away—how would he explain that, other than admitting he did it purely out of shame? Instead, he got in the passenger seat of the Bentley, and decided he’d return for his shabby wheels later.

Chittaphon sipped out of his travel mug, the top of which he’d left off to allow the steaming beverage to cool. He smacked his lips, gazing out at the road, squinting to shield his eyes from the blazing morning sunshine.

“I don’t know how you can wear dark-coloured wool in this weather,” Taeyong hummed. “Do you even check the forecast?”

Chittaphon shrugged. “Fashion over function,” he said simply.

He parked in the underground parkade and they took the elevator up to the fifth floor. It was 8 AM sharp, a half-hour before work was due to start, and Chittaphon left Taeyong alone to go handle some ‘personal’ tasks. Taeyong entered the workroom by himself, finding it to not be totally empty.

“Ah,” he acknowledged the occupants, “I see you’ve met Johnny.”

Johnny looked up from his place at the table. He had a refreshed aura to him, and seemed a lot more at ease than he’d been since the party. Seated atop the table near him was Hwiyoung, the sales attendant they’d met the previous day.

“Yes, I’ve met Youngho-ssi.” Hwiyoung nodded. “I’m glad to see he’s feeling better. We were just going over the sales graphs.”

Taeyong set his bag and coat down on an empty chair. “Sounds invigorating,” he muttered, sarcastically. “Normally that yawn-inducing stuff is Taeil-ssi’s department. Johnny is an editor, he works with authors, like I do.”

Hwiyoung shrugged. “Taeil-ssi isn’t here, and I need to make sure someone at Department 5 has looked this over before I take it. Contrary to popular belief, this is actually important information.”

Someone entered the room behind Taeyong. “I’m here now. What’s going on?”

Johnny stood up and brought the 3” ring binder over to Taeil. “Do your job, sailor. Sales is getting twitchy.”

Hwiyoung smirked snarkily at Johnny, who returned her look with one of taunting innocence. She hopped off the table and sauntered over to the door.

“I’ll leave you boys to it,” she said, hand on the doorknob, “try to have a good sense of it by clockout. Thanks.”

Hwiyoung swung the door open and left the workroom, almost running headfirst into someone on the other side. Both bowed in apology, then she disappeared down the hall. Taeyong watched as a frazzled Max walked in, then stopped dead at the sight of Johnny.

“Oh— You’re here. I, uh, honestly wasn’t expecting that,” Max said awkwardly. “Thought I’d be filling in for you again. You don’t usually return so quick.”

Johnny chuckled and shrugged nonchalantly. “Yeah, well, this time I had some . . . help, bouncing back.”

Max nodded slowly, humming. “Huh. Okay. Well, glad to hear you’re back in action. I’ll just . . . I’ll head out. See you guys around.”

“No worries, Max,” Johnny sighed discontentedly, “there’ll be a next time. There’s always a ‘next time.’”

Taeyong winced at his words—something told him Johnny hadn’t completely healed. He’d patched up the cracks with band-aids and staples, but his heart was as malformed and mangled as it had always been, ever since the first. 

Yuta’s entry disrupted his thoughts. Mark was behind him, looking like he might cry with glee when he saw Johnny. 

“Hi, Mark-yah. Hi, Yuta-ssi,” Johnny said evenly. Mark ran up and hugged Johnny so tight he almost turned blue. Yuta followed him calmly and gave Johnny an acknowledging nod.

“How are you?” Yuta asked gently.

Johnny had a distant expression. “I’m fine. Well, we’re all here, let’s get to work.”

He sat at his spot and opened his laptop, beginning to type in a way that seemed he was trying too hard to be natural. Taeil looked up from examining the sales graphs and exchanged a concerned glance with Yuta.

“Number-one lie,” whispered Max, who was still hovering beside Taeyong, “‘I’m fine.’”

Taeyong gave him a strange up-and-down look. “Why are you still here?”

Max jumped a little. “Sorry. Leaving now.”

And off he went, turning down the hall in the direction of the cubicles. Taeyong shook his head exasperatedly and took a seat beside Johnny.

“What . . . What department does that guy actually work in?” he asked quietly.

Johnny turned his head toward Taeyong and scoffed. “He’s one of the main liaisons between authors and editors, like his partner, Jung Yun Ho. He’s been covering for me for how long and you never bothered to learn anything about him?”

Taeyong shrugged guiltily. “Guess we never talked much. He’s always felt like an outsider.”

Johnny rolled his eyes. “You really need to expand your horizons.”

Mark went over to Taeil to help him make sense of the sales graphs, while Yuta began printing pages of a manuscript by one of the authors under his care. Taeyong got to work answering e-mails, occasionally glancing at Johnny’s laptop to see what he was up to—KidsFlashGames.com, apparently.

Chittaphon didn’t return until close to 3 PM, when he strolled into the workroom with a loud sigh. When he and Johnny locked eyes, he froze up, gulping thickly while he smoothed the wrinkles in his shirt.

Johnny stood up from his place and approached him. Everyone watched with bated breath, stone-still, afraid that even a single movement would set a bomb off. Johnny and Chittaphon stared at each other, and Taeyong saw the return of the lion and the tiger.

“Johnny-ssi, I . . .” Chittaphon began, trailing off with a loud exhale. “I don’t even know where to start. What else can I say, besides I’m really, truly, sorry.”

Johnny hung his head and rubbed the back of his neck. “I still . . . find it hard to look you in the eye, after all that happened. But I realize it wasn’t your fault. She took advantage of your state of being, you lying there half-asleep with a raging boner . . .”

Chittaphon’s face screwed up in confusion. “Huh? I thought she said I was ‘rubbing up’ on her?”

Johnny squinted suspiciously. “That isn’t what she said to me. I was on the phone with her when she told the story. She said you were all but passed-out drunk and your dick was hard, for some reason, so she took that as an invitation . . .”

Chittaphon shuddered. “Thanks for telling me that. Now I feel gross.”

Yuta scoffed, his nose turned up in disgust. “Ugh. Who knows what’s true anymore? She must be a compulsive liar, or something.”

“Who cares? It’s not my baby, it’s not his baby, it’s not our problem. She’s gone with the wind, now,” Johnny grumbled, “good riddance.”

Chittaphon watched him with a searching, observatory look. “So, are you . . . . okay? If I can even ask that question.”

Johnny grimaced, nostrils flared. “You know what? I am okay. This whole situation has made me realize something I should’ve figured out a long time ago,” he spat. “Women are trash. They’re all liars and cheats, they do nothing but crumple me up and throw me out like garbage. Minsoo was a wake-up call. I am done.”

The room was stunned silent, nobody even sure what to say. Taeil widened his eyes and turned back to the graphs, deciding to disengage. Yuta and Mark looked at each other and made their own ‘yikes’ faces. Johnny huffed and turned away, satisfied.

Chittaphon, on the other hand, was suddenly livid, boiling with unmasked rage. His hands were coiled into tight fists, his eyebrows scrunched into each other, his dark eyes almost on fire, like Satan himself had taken over. He stalked up to Johnny, grasped him by the shoulder, spun him around, drew back his right hand, and slapped Johnny hard and fast across the face.

The loud ‘CRACK!’ echoed through the room, startling all eyes back to them again. Johnny stumbled back, before straightening himself, holding his reddening cheek. He gave Chittaphon an angry and shocked glare, his jaw tightening, before he started forward with his hand going up in the beginnings of a punch.

“Whoa, whoa!” Taeil stepped in and grabbed him by the wrist, and Yuta came up to help him hold Johnny back, who struggled against their grips. Chittaphon growled and started toward Johnny, with all intention to do some more damage, but Mark and Taeyong jumped in front to stop him in his tracks.

Johnny jerked against Yuta and Taeil’s hold. “What the fuck, asshole?!” he roared, fury edging every syllable. “I thought you came to apologize, and you fucking slap me?! Are you serious?! You fucked my goddamn girlfriend in my fucking house, and now you— Let me go, Taeil! Yuta! Let me at him!”

Chittaphon pushed against Mark and Taeyong, but they held him back. “How dare you say that shit you said?” he snarled, voice low and hoarse. “‘Women are trash’? Are you for real?”

Johnny tore himself free from Taeil and Yuta and took two threatening steps forward. “You of all people should know exactly what I’m talking about. That bitch, Soomi? Remember her? Remember what she fucking did to you?! You fucking called me in the middle of the night a couple weeks ago, still fucking crying about it! Remember that?!”

Taeyong, taken by surprise at the revelation, slackened his force. Chittaphon took the opportunity to throw him to the side and get right up in Johnny’s face, breathing ragged. “Of course I remember. But you know who was there to help me through the aftermath? My mother! My good friend, Lisa! How dare you put them on the same level as Soomi, you closed-minded son of a fucking—!”

Johnny reeled and raked a fist upside Chittaphon’s jaw, the blow sending horrified shivers up Taeyong’s spine. Chittaphon rocked back, holding his face, wincing in pain, before he twisted back to rage and stepped forward with a low roar, driving a hard fist right into Johnny’s stomach, sending him to the ground in with a doubled-over, winded groan.

Taeyong and Taeil exchanged a helpless look, unsure what to do. Chittaphon watched Johnny pick himself up slowly, eyes like chips of ice. He grabbed Chittaphon by the collar, shoving him against the blinded window of the workroom, bringing up a knee to slam it right between Chittaphon’s legs.

Chittaphon yelped in pain and went a little limp as his eyes rolled back into his head, and he stifled a whimper. Johnny breathed out harsh exhales, chest heaving, teeth clenched so hard his gums were light pink.

“Listen to me, shithead,” Johnny spat, “my first girlfriend cheated on me with a buddy of mine. My second girlfriend stole all the cash from my wallet and ghosted. Another told me she loved me while behind my back she was fucking the professor! Do you know how many times I’ve been cheated on? Heartbroken? Used? You cannot tell me that there’s good out there, not when I’ve been through all that shit!”

Chittaphon snarled and snapped his head forward, his forehead colliding with Johnny’s, making them both topple and grunt in pain. Taeyong jumped between them before Johnny could retaliate, a hand on each of their chests, holding them apart like Moses and the Red Sea.

“Okay, okay, enough, you two! Do you want to end up in the hospital? Cut it out right now!” he barked, arms straining.

Johnny grabbed a fistful of his shirt and threw him to the ground. “Stay out of this, Taeyong! You could never understand!”

“I do!” Taeyong tried. “Xukun—”

“We don’t want to hear your sob story!” Johnny hollered, stomping his foot in Taeyong’s direction. “What right do you have to whine? So what he mistook your intentions? Boo-fucking-hoo!”

Chittaphon grabbed Johnny and threw him down on the table, toppling a stack of papers and manuscripts, and started landing blows to both sides of his face. “Leave him alone! Don’t you say those things to him, he has nothing to do with this! You really are so rotten, aren’t you? You absolute fucking disgrace! Maybe all those women weren’t the problem. Maybe it was you all along!”

Yuta grabbed Chittaphon strongly and threw him away from Johnny, trying to hold off his own anger. “Get off! Enough of this, both of you! Do you even hear yourselves? This is fucking ridiculous!”

Chittaphon fixed his collar stiffly, bleeding from his nose and forehead, nearly shaking with fury. “Soomi was awful. Minsoo was horrible. All those girls were terrible. But there are billions of women out there, and you cannot generalize them like you have. That exact kind of thinking is what makes me so afraid to open up, and it hurts everyone around me! So wake the fuck up, get a grip, and move the fuck on! Do not go down that road, you hear me?”

Johnny sat up stiffly, blood from both nostrils running into his mouth, lip split open, both jaws bruised, and one eye squinted shut. “Who are you to tell me what to do? You know nothing.”

“I do,” Chittaphon insisted. “I’ve lived in fear of the one good thing in this world because of heartbreak. I know how much it hurts me and everyone else, because I experience it every day! I do not want to see anyone else make the same mistakes. Especially not you. You’re smarter than that.”

“Am I?” Johnny said coarsely, spitting a glob of blood onto the floor. “I’m just a stupid, good-for-nothing sleaze. You’re sadly mistaken if you think I’m much of anything else.”

Chittaphon drew his arm back again and stepped toward him. “You fucking—!”

Taeil grabbed him and shoved him back. “Stop! You’ve already fucked up his face, haven’t you had enough? Just get out. Just go. Cool off somewhere and we’ll talk about this later. Jesus Christ.”

Chittaphon sniffed angrily and stormed off, slamming the door behind himself. Mark was already pressing a cold pack from the workroom mini-fridge to Johnny’s bruises, and Yuta was mopping up the blood with a napkin. Taeyong looked at Johnny, who looked back at him with apologetic eyes, and he got up off the floor and went out to follow Chittaphon. The air in the room had become too thick to breathe.

He found the author in the fourth-floor bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror. He seemed surprised to see Taeyong enter, but looked down at the sink where his blood had stained the white porcelain.

“What was that about?” Taeyong asked softly, grabbing paper towels and ripping off pieces to stuff into Chittaphon’s nose. 

Chittaphon waved him away and fixed the rolled-up tissue himself. “What are you talking about? You heard him. All that shit he said about women, about you? I just got so mad . . .”

“I get that,” Taeyong quipped, “but you really waled on him. That was unnecessary. What if there’s a lawsuit—?”

“I don’t care,” Chittaphon muttered, “nobody says stuff like that to you and gets away with it. Sue me if you must.”

Taeyong tried not to swoon. “I feel like there’s more to this,” he whispered. 

“It’s just that—” Chittaphon groaned, holding his nose. “I said the same things, after . . . after Soomi. That’s what makes me keep pushing you away, over and over. It’s what kept me from . . . seeing my daughter . . .”

Taeyong startled back, eyes going wider than dinner plates. “Your what?!”

Chittaphon shook his head. “No, sorry, she’s not mine. At least I don’t think she is,” he said quietly. “Soomi got pregnant close to the end of our relationship. We were going to name her ‘Sofia.’ I was so happy, and then . . . we had that fight, and she revealed it wasn’t my baby, and the man she’d been having an affair with was the father. After I left her, left Treble, I never went back. I never got to see Sofia, I couldn’t.”

Taeyong breathed a sigh of relief and scratched his head. “I guess that’s understandable, if she really isn’t yours. I wouldn’t want to see it either. It wouldn’t feel right.”

“I know, but I keep thinking . . .” Chittaphon trailed off. “We’d had sex without protection more than once, and I didn’t . . . always remember to pull out. A couple weeks before she got pregnant was one such time, and she had run out of Plan B . . . she said she went to get more that day, but I’m not entirely sure if she ever did. I should’ve checked, ran a DNA test . . . what if Sofia is mine?”

Taeyong leaned against the bathroom counter and shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s never too late, I guess.”

Chittaphon hung his head, before he remembered his nosebleed and tipped it back again. “Whatever, it’s a thought for another day. I’d better clock out early, I can’t run into Johnny again. We’ll sort this out when we’ve both had time to sort of . . . steep in our thoughts. I’ll see you tomorrow, Taeyong-ah.”

Taeyong watched him go. “Yeah. See you . . . tomorrow.”


	23. The Scent of Jack Daniel's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all,
> 
> Sorry for the long delay. With school starting again, things have been pretty hectic and I haven't found the energy to write. I can't promise the next chapter will come quick, but I will update as fast as I can so please be patient!
> 
> Enjoy this chapter ٩(｡・ω・｡)و

“Just get out of here. Just go. Cool off somewhere and we’ll talk about this later. Jesus Christ.”

Taeil’s harsh tone chased Chittaphon out of the workroom with an angered sniff, who slammed the door behind himself and made for the hallway. Mark had found a cold pack from the workroom mini-fridge and was frantically pressing it against Johnny’s bruises, and Yuta was using a napkin to absorb the mess of blood from his nose. Johnny looked down at Taeyong apologetically, but his expression was blank as he lifted himself off the floor and left to follow Chittaphon.

“What got into you two?” Mark asked softly. “That was a big fight.”

Johnny tried to scowl but his face was in too much pain. He spoke slowly, carefully, moving his lip and jaw as little as possible. “I don’t know. I guess he got mad about what I said.”

“You did say a lot of mean things,” Yuta pointed out. Quickly, he went on. “Granted, so did he, but . . . I can see why he acted like he did. And what you said to Taeyongie was way out of line.”

Johnny flared his nostrils and looked down at his hands. “I regret that. I guess I was just throwing my anger around at everyone. I should apologize to him . . .”

“Taeyongie has always been there for you, through thick and thin,” Mark scolded, then jumped a little when Johnny glared him down. Courageously, he went on. “He was trying to help you and you said something really nasty. You better hope he forgives you.”

Johnny looked frustratedly at the floor, before swatting Yuta and Mark away and getting up off the table. “I’m getting some coffee,” he grumbled, taking some napkins out of Yuta’s hands and stuffing pieces up his nostrils.

He left the workroom and made his way to the third-floor break lounge, which was thankfully empty. He adjusted the napkins in his nose as he made himself a mug of $1 coffee, not even certain if he felt up to drinking it. As he sat against the counter, holding the steaming beverage, the door swung open and he immediately ducked away to hide his injuries.

“Youngho-ssi? Is that you?” asked a familiar, gruffly sweet voice. Johnny cursed under his breath as he turned to face Hwiyoung, who was standing at the entrance letting the door close behind her.

“Yeah. It’s me,” he muttered.

Hwiyoung stifled a surprised gasp. His bloodied face was certainly not one she’d expected to see, especially since she’d been with him that morning, when he was perfectly unscathed. Especially since she’d never seen him as the ‘broken’ type, nor the kind of person who’d get himself beat up at work. He watched her eyes as every perception she had of him was shattered, and her brain scrambled to pull back some of the pieces.

“What . . . What on Earth happened to you?” she asked, astonished and horrified, watching with shaking pupils as he removed one rolled-up napkin from one nostril and the blood resumed pouring forth. Sighing, he replaced it.

“I was in a fight. With a coworker. Doesn’t matter who, because I’m not pressing charges and you shouldn’t either. Nobody needs to know about this,” he said seriously. Hwiyoung approached him gingerly, like a young girl would advance on an injured stray dog, and reached out a hand to touch a blooming bruise on his cheek. He flinched away. 

She looked at him with a great deal of concern. “How will you get out of work without the director knowing . . . all this?”

Johnny shrugged. “I’ll find a way. He’s used to my shenanigans.”

Hwiyoung watched him with narrowed eyes, then asked, “How did this happen?”

Johnny sighed loudly. “I don’t know. I said some stupid shit and then my coworker got all riled up . . . it’s just a mess, and I’m not sure what’s going to fix it. I hurt him pretty badly, too.”

“You and your colleagues are all friends outside of work, right?” she asked, and he nodded dimly. “Well, that goes to show you, never bring personal emotion into the workplace. There’s a reason workplace romances never work out.”

Johnny’s eyebrows peaked. “Never?” he asked. Hwiyoung shook her head solemnly, and Johnny thought about Chittaphon’s past troubles with Soomi, and current troubles with Taeyong. Perhaps she’s right—workplace romances never work out, for one reason or another.

“Well, anyway,” Hwiyoung jiggled her shoulders as if shaking off the previous topic, “you mentioned saying some shitty things. What could have possibly incited such a fight?”

Suddenly, the true weight and error of his ways began to dawn on him, as he looked a woman in the eyes and told her, “I said ‘women are trash’ and that I’m done with them. I didn’t really mean it, there’s just . . . a lot has happened . . .”

“First of all, how dare you,” she said, an edge to her voice, and gave him a gentle sock on the arm. Then, she softened up and smiled. “Clearly you have a lot of anger built up. You couldn’t have meant something so harsh. I challenge you to look me in the eyes and tell me I’m trash.”

Johnny chuckled awkwardly. “No, you’re not trash,” he said.

“Then who is?” she asked.

He sat back on the counter and set his mug down, looking at the ugly yellow lights on the ceiling. “Every woman I’ve ever dated. The last one had sex with my friend in my own house. It’s just hard to have any hope when every time . . .”

Hwiyoung shrugged and leaned against the counter next to him. “I know how you feel. I’ve been unlucky in love too. Though, that may have more to do with me than them, but anyway . . .”

“How so?” he mused.

She looked at him smugly. “I don’t know if I can trust you with that information yet.”

Johnny put his hands up in surrender and leaned back, puffing out air. “Whoa, mysterious. Okay, I see,” he chuckled, before crossing his arms over his chest and sighing. “Then tell me this, Lee Hwiyoung: How do you find the strength to keep trying when everyone always lets you down?”

Hwiyoung chewed her lip and looked at the floor in thought. “I don’t. Every time it ends badly I tell myself, ‘Never again,’ but no matter what I always swing back into it eventually. Love is like a lure, that way,” she said. “My expectations get crushed, every time. And every time I try again I’m afraid of the same result. But somewhere, deep in the back of my mind, a part of me keeps saying eventually, one of these days, I’ll find the right one and finally be happy. I just have to wait patiently.”

Johnny scoffed quietly. “Is it really worth all that effort? All that pain?”

“Yes,” she answered honestly, looking up at him with a big smile. “Yes. It’s always worth it. You won’t win what you don’t play.”

Johnny felt those words absorb into his chest. Her soft yet commanding voice, her dewey eyes that looked so earnest and true, and her almost anonymous stature made her someone he couldn’t refute. In that moment, he didn’t even want to—he dearly wished to believe what she said to be true. 

Hwiyoung exhaled the moment and shifted in place. “So you said some ignorant things and got the crap beat out of you. What else?”

“Hey! I got some hits in too!” he protested.

“Uh-huh, yeah, okay big guy,” Hwiyoung teased. “So he hit you, you hit him . . . Why, exactly? I find it hard to believe he’d go that apeshit over one dumb comment about women. Then again, I don’t know him.”

Johnny huffed loudly and struggled finding the best way to explain. “It’s . . . a long story,” he finally said, “a very, very, very, very long story.”

“Right, got it,” Hwiyoung conceded. “Well, I hate to cut this short, but I should get back to my job . . . Will you be okay?”

Johnny nodded certainly. “Yeah. Just a little TLC and I’ll be back on my feet. Good luck with your . . . graphs.”

She smiled thankfully at him as she left. He watched the door close behind her, and stared at where she’d disappeared for a long time, some kind of emotion tapping at his heartstrings in a way he couldn’t quite describe.

***°***

4월 21일, 2:57 오후  
텐이, 너 괜찮니? (Tennie, are you feeling okay?)  
식적으로 이야기 할 수 있을까요? (Can I talk informally?)  
대답 해주세요. (Please answer.)

It had been two days since the incident with Johnny, and Taeyong had not seen Chittaphon since. He and Johnny both had skipped out on work the day before, and now Chittaphon wasn’t answering his phone. Taeyong had left enough calls and texts that he must have seen them—he was just choosing to ignore them.

“I don’t understand why he’s acting like this!” Taeyong groaned frustratedly. Jaehyun was sitting on Taeyong’s couch with a bottle of beer in his hand, looking exasperated to be listening to yet more ranting about Chittaphon.

Taeyong went on. “I mean, he was on my side, we weren’t fighting! I was the one who followed him out afterward! Why’s he giving me the cold shoulder?”

Jaehyun shrugged boredly. “Look, Taeyong, I bet it has nothing to do with you. He probably just needs some time alone. The one I’m really worried about is Johnny. He’s far more unpredictable.”

“I would argue,” Taeyong muttered.

“I know he said something hurtful to you,” Jaehyun acknowledged, “but—”

“That’s an understatement!” Taeyong roared. “He totally devalued my experiences! After he’d cried about feeling guilty for it, too! Was that all a ploy? He’s so full of shit!”

“But!” Jaehyun raised his voice to shut Taeyong up. “But, he was angry and in the heat of the moment we tend to say senseless things. You’ve done that to him, remember? I sincerely believe he didn’t mean what he said.”

Taeyong narrowed his eyes. “You weren’t there. You didn’t hear him, see his eyes. I think he meant every word.”

“Whether he meant it or not, I think he regrets having said it. He knows it hurt you,” Jaehyun pointed out, taking a swig of beer. “So, pick your balls up off the floor and go talk to Johnny. Chittaphon still needs time but Johnny needs you. Go.”

Taeyong took a deep breath in until it filled his whole chest, then blew it out softly through his lips. He grabbed his keys off the kitchen counter and made for the door, fussily pulling his shoes on. Jaehyun watched him, beer still in hand.

“I’ll be here,” Jaehyun announced, holding his bottle in the air, “drinking all your Sapporo.”

Taeyong rolled his eyes as he left his suite, grumbling to himself the whole way to his car. He felt angry and stubborn, disliking the idea of listening to Johnny’s excuses; but at the same time, he desperately wanted to clear the bad blood between them.

He shot Johnny a quick text.

4월 21일, 3:36 오후  
너 집에 있니? (Are you at home?)

Johnny responded almost immediately after, barely giving Taeyong time to start his car and put it into Drive.

4월 21일, 3:36 오후  
왜? (Why?)

4월 21일, 3:37 오후  
질문에 답하세요. (Answer the question.)

4월 21일, 3:37 오후  
네, 나 집에 있어 (Yes, I am at home)  
너 오고 있니? (Are you coming?)

4월 21일, 3:38 오후  
네. 거기 있어. (Yes. Stay there.)

Without further distraction, he cranked the gearshift and drove off down the street. Clouds had covered the sky all day and rain had come and gone—now, only a soft pitter-patter drummed against the roof of the Camry, and the asphalt was splattered with darker patches here and there, like the hide of a Paint horse.

Johnny’s house looked abandoned from the outside. It was dark inside, all the blinds were closed, and two days’ worth of unanswered mail was stuffed in the mailbox, overflowing like a riverbank during the rainy season. Movement at the window caught Taeyong’s attention, and he caught a slip of curtain being pulled back so someone could peek through. Then, it was gone.

Moments later, he received a text.

4월 21일, 3:55 오후  
문이 열려있어 (The door is open)

“Lazy mother—” Taeyong grumbled as he climbed out of his car, bringing up a hand to shield his face from the gradual rain. He walked across the street and up to Johnny’s door, which, as promised, was slightly ajar. He pushed it open, the stench of troglodyte wafting from the entrance, dreary grey light splashing the gloomy interior. 

Inside was deathly still, like an empty funeral home, the only sound being the clatter of cans knocking against each other as Taeyong accidentally kicked them. It was then he noticed the floor was littered with empty alcohol containers and, even worse, cigarette packs.

Taeyong picked up the empty pack under his foot. “I thought you quit,” he said into the darkness.

“I did,” said Johnny’s voice, from somewhere up ahead. “I started getting cravings again. I don’t know why.”

Taeyong threw the tiny box back down and went toward the window where he’d seen Johnny peeking through the curtains. As expected, there he was, seated on the floor beneath the window with his back to the wall, half-finished cigarette pinched between two fingers.

“Give me that,” Taeyong ordered, snatching the smoke from Johnny’s hand and squishing it into the ashtray he had next to him. “Smoking indoors. Huh. Trying to start a fire?”

Johnny looked up at him indignantly. “Maybe,” he rasped.

Taeyong rolled his eyes and plopped himself down next to Johnny, kicking the ashtray away. His friend smelled like tobacco ash, high-percentage alcohol, and at-least-two-day-old pajamas. He looked even worse—pale, with eye bags and messy hair, unmanaged stubble, and lips that looked like ice sheets cracking apart. 

“Are you drunk?” Taeyong asked.

“No. Horrendously hungover,” Johnny corrected. “I ran out of beer last night.”

Taeyong scoffed incredulously. “You, who keeps enough alcohol stored at any given time to host a party, ran out? In one night? Good God, man.”

Johnny shrugged, a self-satisfied smirk plastered across his annoying face. Taeyong watched him, looked through him, saw the crushing sadness deep in his eyes that made his own chest feel tight. There was so much behind that tough, playboy façade—a man who feels, a man who hurts, a man who cries, a heart beaten up and ripped apart by trust. 

“So, you skipped work to get blackout drunk by yourself in your little mancave?” Taeyong muttered, eyebrow raised. “Classic Johnny.”

Johnny looked at his hands. “No. I didn’t skip work. I . . . lost my job. The director fired me yesterday. That’s when I started drinking heavily.”

Taeyong jumped forward off the wall. “What?! You got fired?!”

Johnny seemed indifferent. “Yeah. It was bound to happen eventually,” he sighed. “The director said he was tired of me missing work and couldn’t make any more excuses for me. So, he had to fire me. I get my last paycheck on Monday.”

Taeyong was crestfallen. “I can’t believe it. I can’t imagine Department 5 without you. Do you think he knew about the fight?”

Johnny shook his head. “He didn’t say anything.”

Taeyong had seen this coming for a long time. Every time Johnny went through a bought of depression, Taeyong thought it would be his last days at the company. Somehow, he’d held out this long, and it felt so unreal to actually, finally, be happening. 

“What will you do now?” he asked slowly.

Johnny shrugged. “Dunno. My parents can help me out financially, at least for a bit. This could be good, I could use some time off.”

“Not if you’re spending it like this,” Taeyong pointed out.

“You’re right. I’ll do better,” Johnny relented. There was a moment of silence, then, as their unspoken words hung thickly in the air between them. “You know, Taeyong, I didn’t mean what I—”

“Don’t mention it. Just forget about it,” Taeyong said, teeth gritted. “I don’t even want to think about it.”

Johnny looked at Taeyong remorsefully, eyebrows knitted together. “Please, Taeyong, I want you to know how sorry I am.”

“I get it. You were mad,” Taeyong snapped, “but anger tends to bring the secrets we keep to the surface. It takes away our inhibition so we can reveal our true thoughts. So I don’t want to hear it.”

Johnny looked almost close to tears. “I never should’ve said that to you,” he choked, “you didn’t deserve that and I know how much Xukun hurt you, I shouldn’t have . . .”

“Whatever. Don’t mention it,” Taeyong said, exasperated. “Just . . . get out of this hole you’ve dug yourself. I know it’s not easy but promise me you’ll try.”

Johnny smiled gently. “Yeah. I’ll try. Thanks for not giving up on me.”

They spent the next hour-and-a-half cleaning Johnny’s house. Taeyong went around with a trash bag collecting all the garbage off the floor while Johnny took a shower and changed his clothes. Then, Taeyong fixed a quick dinner of ramen noodles for them both, and they spent some time in silence watching SNL skits on the TV until Johnny grew tired and they parted for the night.

When Taeyong returned home, Jaehyun was passed out on his couch, head back and open-mouth snoring, with a small collection of empty Sapporo bottles on the coffee table. Amused, Taeyong snapped a quick photo before he lifted his drunk friend up and carried him to bed. It wasn’t long before Taeyong had taken his place on the couch.

***

“Hey, wake up. Taeyongie!”

Taeyong awoke with a start, his back aching from an uncomfortable sleep on the sofa. Jaehyun was standing above him, tilted and groggy and stinking of beer, tapping him gently on the arm with one of the Sapporo bottles.

“Don’t you work today?” Jaehyun asked once they made eye contact. Taeyong groaned loudly and stretched himself out, sitting up and fixing his bunched-up clothes. He looked sleepily at the clock, which was boasting 8 A.M.

“Shit,” he muttered, getting up quickly and making his way to his room. He threw a quick thank-you to Jaehyun as he went.

Quickly, he put together a presentable outfit and fixed his face and hair in the bathroom, before collecting his stuff and making for the door. Hand on the doorknob, he turned to Jaehyun, who was seated again on his couch with a cup of coffee in his hand, watching some early-morning talk show.

“Don’t you have a house of your own?” Taeyong asked, flat-toned.

Jaehyun tipped his head back to look at Taeyong upside-down. “I’m broke so I can’t afford cable at home right now. Do you mind?”

Taeyong rolled his eyes. “I guess not. Just don’t break anything.”

Jaehyun gave him a thumbs-up and he left with a brusque good-bye. He made it to work just in the nick of time, rushing into the workroom at exactly eight-thirty. In his rush, he’d forgotten about one key detail—a detail he was reminded of the minute he saw the downcast faces of his colleagues.

Yuta approached him slowly. “Taeyong . . . did you hear?”

“About Johnny?” he asked. Yuta nodded. “Yeah. I talked to him yesterday. He told me.”

“It feels so empty,” said Mark, who was sitting at the table with one arm propped up to rest his cheek on his fist.

“You talked to him?” asked Taeil. “How is he?”

Taeyong shrugged uncertainly. “I don’t want to say anything. I thought he was okay last time, and we all know how wrong I was.”

It was quiet for a few minutes. Everything seemed to have fallen out of place and nobody knew what to say. Johnny was gone, Chittaphon was nowhere to be found, and everyone felt completely darksided.

Then, a message sounded over the PA system: “Lee Tae Yong and Nakamoto Yuta of Department 5, please report to the director immediately. Once again, Lee Tae Yong and Nakamoto Yuta of Department 5, please report to the director immediately. Thank you.”

Taeyong and Yuta exchanged a glance. Shrugging nervously, they left the workroom and traveled to the tenth floor, where the director resided in his office. Gingerly, Yuta knocked twice on the door.

“Come in,” said the director from inside. With one final glance at one another, they entered the office carefully, scrutinized by the director’s harsh gaze and his unruly tidy workspace.

They sat down in chairs on the opposite side of the director’s desk, facing him in a long moment of authoritative silence. Finally, he leaned forward and clasped his hands together on his desk. Taeyong could hear his heartbeat in his ears.

“Lee Taeyong, Nakamoto Yuta,” he said, glancing at them each in turn, “I’m sure you’ve heard that Seo Youngho has been . . . laid off.”

“Yes, sir,” they said in unison.

“Right. There’s going to be some changes around Department 5,” he said ominously. After a heart-stopping beat, he went on. “Firstly, congratulations Yuta, you’re being promoted to Assistant Chief Editor. That comes with a raise. Good work.”

Yuta, despite himself, seemed delighted, but he kept a cool composure. “Thank you, sir.”

“That also means you’ll be taking over the authors who were previously under Youngho’s care. Can you handle that?” the director asked seriously.

“Of course, sir,” Yuta nodded affirmatively.

“Good,” said the director. “Finally, there’s a new intern who I think would make a great addition to Department 5. His name is Xiaojun. He will be joining you as of tomorrow.”

Taeyong and Yuta looked at each other with miens of surprise and intrigue. So much was changing all at once that they couldn’t quite wrap their heads around it. Since they’d first began at the company together, they’d never lost nor gained anyone, and their positions had never changed. Now, all of that was happening at the same time, and it was—needless to say—overwhelming.

“That is all for now,” the director concluded, “return to your stations. I will inform Youngho’s authors that Yuta will be taking care of them from now on. Good work, gentlemen.”

***

Taeyong had a headache by the end of work. He was stressed out and overwhelmed by the feeling of his world crumbling to pieces around him. He’d been sitting with his head face-down on the desk for so long he’d sort of forgotten where he was.

“Taeyongie.” Taeil got his attention by sitting next to him and placing a hand on his shoulder. Taeyong looked up and stared at Taeil for a few seconds, his brain not fully registering who he was looking at.

“I can see you’re stressed,” Taeil continued. “A lot has changed and it feels like everything’s falling apart. I know who you need right now, and so do you.”

Taeyong squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and sighed. “Ten-ah. I miss him. Where is he?”

Taeil smiled sympathetically. “I’ll drive you to his place. Get your stuff.”

Taeyong spent the whole ride staring out the window. It was raining, the whole world looking grey and solemn, reflecting his feelings inside. It was harsh to look at, almost like looking in a mirror, but somehow he couldn’t take his gaze away. He was so focused on the raindrops on the window that he hadn’t noticed that the car had stopped.

“We’re here,” Taeil said softly. Taeyong awoke from his trance and gave him a thankful glance. “Should I wait for you?”

“No, that’s okay,” Taeyong declined, “I’ll be fine getting home.”

“If you do,” Taeil murmured with a wink.

Taeyong gave him a ridiculed smirk and exited the car. He crossed the street with his head down and his hands in his pockets, worried about what he might see when that door opens. A blockage on the steps stopped him, and he looked up to see what it was.

“What the Hell are you doing here?” Taeyong asked, shock and intrigue mixing on his face. Johnny glanced up with a sheepish expression.

“I’m . . . not really sure,” Johnny admitted, shrugging. “I wanted to say something to him, but I don’t know what.”

Taeyong nodded. “Me too. Together?”

Johnny stood up and started for the door, hesitating to knock. Taeyong gave him an encouraging look, and he smiled nervously before rapping quietly on the wooden surface. Moments turned into minutes as they waited. No sound came from within.

“Think he’s out?” Johnny wondered aloud. Taeyong peered through a window and looked around the living room. At first, he saw nothing. Then, he spotted two shoe-clad feet poking out from behind the couch.

“Fuck,” Taeyong breathed, shaking. “He’s passed out on the floor. He could be hurt.”

Johnny looked alarmed. He backed up to the door, took a running start, and slammed the full force of his body into it, breaking it open with a loud clatter. Taeyong rushed in, panic-stricken, and collapsed next to the body on the floor.

“Ten-ah? Ten-ah?!” Taeyong yelled, shaking him vigorously. “Ten!”

Johnny kneeled next to Taeyong and made a noise of disgust. “Eugh, vomit. He smells like a distillery.”

Taeyong looked at the pool of throw-up next to Chittaphon’s face. He grabbed his shoulders and began shaking him again. “He’s unresponsive,” Taeyong mumbled, tears beginning to stream down his cheeks. “Call an ambulance!”

“Way ahead of you,” Johnny said, phone already at his ear. “Yes, hello? We need an ambulance. My friend is passed out and he’s not responding. We just found him, I don’t know how long he’s been like this. What—? Oh, Taeyong, check his pulse and breathing.”

Taeyong wiped his cheeks and pressed two fingers to Chittaphon’s neck. “I feel a heartbeat, but it’s faint,” he reported, stretching to check his nose. “Breathing is slow and shallow.”

Johnny took a deep breath and held a fistful of his hair. “Ambulance is on its way,” he said.

“What can we do until then? What if he dies?!” Taeyong panicked. He frantically tugged at Chittaphon’s clothes, trying to wake him up.

Johnny grabbed Taeyong and pulled him away. “Calm down. He’ll be fine. Put him in the recovery position.”

“The what?” Taeyong muttered breathlessly.

“The— Oh, nevermind, I’ll do it.” Johnny moved Taeyong aside and began rearranging Chittaphon so he was on his side. “It’s the recovery position. This way, if he pukes again or something, he won’t choke. It’s safer like this.”

Taeyong pulled his knees to his chest and began to sob profusely. Johnny wrapped an arm around him and rubbed his shoulder comfortingly, whispering quiet encouragement until sirens could be heard coming up the street.

“I’ll go get them,” Johnny said softly. He got up and went out the door, returning moments later with three paramedics in tow.

“Name of the patient?” asked one as she knelt next to the body. 

“Chi-Chittaphon L-Leechaiyapornkul,” Taeyong blubbered.

The paramedic looked up, surprised. “The author?”

Taeyong nodded. She got to work checking Chittaphon’s vitals, as the other two prepared a stretcher. She began calling out words Taeyong didn’t understand, and everything began to shut down. He felt like his head was in a fishbowl, everything sounding muffled and faraway behind a ringing in his ears. 

The paramedics lifted up Chittaphon’s body and strapped him into the stretcher, wheeling him to the ambulance. Johnny helped Taeyong up, and they hobbled after them and climbed into the vehicle. The sirens were deafening, and the whole way the paramedics kept shouting things about ‘BP’ and a lot of numbers. The pulse monitor was slow and unsteady. Taeyong was shaking so bad he couldn’t even see a foot in front of himself.

“Is-Is he going to die?” he asked quietly.

Johnny looked uncertainly at the paramedic, who glanced back and let out a sigh. “Mr. Leechaiyapornkul will be alright,” she said in a monotone voice. “He’s got severe alcohol poisoning and he’s unstable right now, but his chances of pulling through are very high. He’s young and healthy. It’ll be okay.”

Taeyong let out a weak, desperate sound and his shaking got worse. Within minutes, even the sirens couldn’t be heard over the ringing in his head. All of a sudden, his vision went white and his brain got fuzzy. He could feel himself falling but couldn’t move a muscle to stop it.

“Taeyong? Taeyong!” He heard Johnny’s voice calling him, distantly. Then he heard the paramedics yelling more things, and hands grasping his face. Then, he felt nothing, and everything went dark.


	24. The Scent of Fallen Grace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all ヽ(=^･ω･^=)丿
> 
> Welcome, finally, to Chapter 24! It's been a hot minute. As I've said before, I will always continue to update even if it takes me a while. Please be patient and stick with me and the story. There's still a lot left!
> 
> I've been very busy as of late with school, a new job, and a theatre program I've enrolled in. I'm finding time to write but it's difficult so I apologize. I'm working as fast as I can ( • ̀ω•́ )
> 
> As always, remember to stay tuned to my Snapchat for updates on the story's progression, the writing progress, and sneak-peeks of chapters to come.  
> (SC: @ sadiecheesecake)
> 
> Thank you for your continued support and all of your comments. I love reading them!
> 
> Enjoy this new installment d(=^･ω･^=)b

Taeyong awoke to blinding yellow light. Blinking his eyes, he focused on the rectangular fixtures on the ceiling, faintly dotted tiles, and he inhaled the rubbery, medical smell of a doctor’s office. He was lying down upon a cushioned bed in an empty room, the front half propped up to give him leverage, completely alone with only the droning hum of the ventilator to keep him company. The door suddenly opened, a deafening creak, and a man dressed in teal scrubs walked in carrying a clipboard.

“Lee Taeyong?” he said. Taeyong groaned, propping himself on his elbows, and nodded slowly. “Do you know where you are, Mr. Lee?”

Taeyong shook his head slowly. The doctor looked at his clipboard again and flattened his lips. “You are at the Gangnam Severance Hospital. You passed out cold during the ambulance ride here. You hit your head minorly, but otherwise you’re okay. You’re free to go anytime.”

The doctor turned to leave. Taeyong quickly threw himself up and yelled, “Wait!” The doctor turned and gave him a look of exhausted patience. “I came here with someone. He’s my friend, Chittaphon. I was the one who found him. Where is he? Is he alright?”

The doctor glanced at his clipboard once more and flipped a couple pages. “Ah,” he hummed, nodding, “Leechaiyapornkul, the author?”

Taeyong nodded fervently. The doctor continued, “I wasn’t the one who examined him, but it says here he’s up in ICU. You can ask the receptionist for directions.”

“Thank you!” Taeyong yelled as he sprinted past the doctor and into Emergency. The waiting room was full of morose people who looked like they’d been waiting a long time, and the line for reception was almost out the door. Taeyong didn’t have time to wait. He approached the part of the reception desk where a secretary was clacking away at a computer, not engaging with patients so there was no line. He almost winded himself running into the desk, and took a moment to find his balance and collect his thoughts before he spoke.

“I have to find my friend. He’s in ICU, his name is Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul. Please, he means a lot to me and I need to know he’s okay,” he rambled. The receptionist was giving him a bewildered look, not having expected to be disturbed in such a way. Nonetheless, she straightened up and began typing things into the keyboard.

“I’ve got it right here,” she said calmly, “Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul, arrived four hours ago and is currently stabilized in ICU. You want to go through those doors there, and it’s room 106. On your left.”

Taeyong nodded thankfully but was too out of breath to say anything else. He sped off and found two automatic sliding doors headed by a sign reading 중환자실 (Intensive Care Unit). On the left-hand side, he read the room numbers aloud—100, 102, 104—until he came to the one he was looking for. He reached for the handle, but hesitated, his hand hovering there. What would he see on the other side of the door? 

“You must be Lee Taeyong,” said a voice behind him. He spun around. A woman dressed in a dark blue and orange uniform was leaning against the opposite wall, her arms crossed over her chest. He recognized her as the head paramedic who’d first arrived at the scene. She took a few steps toward him. “Your friend Johnny told me your name. He’s in the waiting room, I think he fell asleep.”

Taeyong stared at her, a little astonished. “You brought Ten here. You saved his life. Thank you.”

She smiled warmly. “All in a day’s work. He’s stable, but he hasn’t come to yet. He had acute alcohol poisoning and was probably minutes from death when you found him.”

Taeyong trembled and his breath began to shake. “Can I see him?”

The paramedic nodded. “Sure. As I said, he’s not awake yet, but go right ahead.”

Taeyong gulped and steeled himself, before turning the handle and pushing open the door. Inside, the lights were bright and blue, the whole room stagnant and sterilized, widely empty aside from a bed with a mess of machinery surrounding it. Chittaphon was tucked tightly in, one arm outstretched and pierced with an IV needle, breathing tubes hooked up to his nose. He looked pale—he looked dead—but the heart monitor was beeping steadily, and the oxygen machine was pumping slowly with each deep inhale. Taeyong breathed a sigh of relief.

“Can I ask what your relationship is?” the paramedic murmured. She was standing at the door, one shoulder leaned against the frame, impressively comfortable in the tense ambience of the room. “You seem close. You called him by another name . . . Ten?”

Taeyong smiled a little. “He’s an author, I’m his editor. We’re also . . . well, it’s complicated, but let’s just say our relationship exceeds the workplace. We call him ‘Ten’ because his name is difficult to pronounce. It’s a nickname.”

“I know he’s an author,” the paramedic nodded, “I read his stuff. He’s excellent. That’s why I’m here, I want to make sure he wakes up.”

Taeyong’s eyebrows turned up in worry. “Might he not?”

The paramedic shrugged. “Most likely he will. We never say anything for certain, but I’m ninety-nine percent sure he’ll be fine.”

“Okay,” Taeyong exhaled, taking a lasting look at Chittaphon. He was all hooked and wired up, like a broken automaton, looking almost statuesque, or like a painted picture. He didn’t seem real.

“Hey,” said the paramedic, getting his attention, “your friend Johnny, does he work in the medical field?”

Taeyong gave her a confused look. “No. I think he has his First Aid certificate, but he’s no doctor.”

She seemed impressed. “Huh. I really thought he was an off-duty first responder, or something like that. Has he ever considered the profession?”

Taeyong shook his head. “I don’t think so, why?”

“He showed amazing courage and resolve during the incident, as well as skill. He took care of you when we were preoccupied with Ten-ssi. When I talked to him, he reported to me like a proper EMT,” she said. Then, she held out her hand to shake, and said, “My name is Ko Shin Ji. If your friend is looking for a job, I’d be happy to recommend him. He’d make a great paramedic.”

Taeyong shook her hand, mouth open in awe. He never knew Johnny had such medical expertise. Now that he thinks of it, there were times in college when Johnny would help partygoers who’d gotten too intoxicated, but Taeyong had never seen him as the life-saving type. Perhaps that could be exactly what Johnny needs.

***

After visiting Chittaphon, Taeyong had found Johnny dozing in one of the waiting-room seats, and they had gone home together. After his ordeal, he didn’t feel up to working, and called in sick. The following morning was relaxing and calm, the sunlight pouring through the window a pretty canary-yellow. Taeyong awoke at ten-thirty, eyes stinging with fatigue, blankets bunched around his limbs and holding him hostage. He lay there for several minutes, feeling like hours, unable to move, thinking about the night before. His mind was clouded—he couldn’t think of anything besides Chittaphon. Was he okay? Did he survive the night? Has he woken up? 

Eventually, his rumbling belly drove him out of bed and sent him trudging to the kitchen. Johnny, who had been asleep on his couch, was slowly rousing from his sleep as Taeyong made a racket searching for food. He felt starved, but somehow didn’t want to eat anything. Johnny groaned as he sat himself up and rubbed his eyes, then stretched out his back and stood up, padding over to Taeyong.

“What’s for breakfast?” Johnny asked idly. He was shirtless and wearing a pair of Taeyong’s old pajama pants, which were comically short on him, exposing his ankles and parts of his calves. Taeyong shut the cupboard with a disgruntled sigh.

“I don’t feel like eating,” he said, grumpy. Just then, his stomach growled loudly.

“Sounds like you do,” Johnny commented. Then, he looked at Taeyong and his face softened. “Look, I’ve been there. Craving food but having no desire to eat. You’re stressed, I get it, but Ten-ssi is going to be fine. I promise.”

Taeyong’s face screwed up. “What if—”

Johnny put a finger to his lips. “Shush. No ‘what if’s. You need food. I’ll make something, go sit down.”

Taeyong relented sadly. He shuffled himself to his couch and plopped down, fiddling with the remote to put some mindless TV on. He didn’t want to think. He wanted to stare at something mildly entertaining and let his brain turn into mush.

“I bet he’s awake already,” Johnny said encouragingly, bringing over two bowls of ramen noodles. “Your kitchen is hilariously dry, so it’s soup for breakfast. Go shopping, you bachelor.”

Despite himself, Taeyong chuckled. Johnny had a way of being effortlessly funny with his thoughtless chatter, and it never failed to lift spirits, even in the darkest of times. Perhaps Johnny’s own experiences made him an expert life-saver. Thinking that reminded Taeyong of something, so he set his noodles on the table for a moment and turned his body toward Johnny.

“Have you ever thought of being a paramedic?” he asked. Johnny paused mid-slurp and gave him a perplexed look.

“Like an EMT? No, I’ve never thought of it,” Johnny mumbled through a mouthful. “Why? Think I could?”

Taeyong smiled. “I think you could do anything,” he said sweetly. “I talked with that lady who saved Ten-hyung, Ko Shinji. She said she’d recommend you if you wanted to work in the medical field. She said you’re skilled.”

Johnny smirked proudly. “Wow. An EMT. I wouldn’t have considered it myself, but maybe . . . I’ll think about it.”

Taeyong grinned, and upon receiving a warning glance from Johnny, picked up his noodles and began eating. It was then his phone buzzed, a text coming in. He reached over and grabbed the device, flicking through it. It was from Jaemin.

4월 23일, 10:56 오전  
태용형 안녕 (Hi Taeyong-hyung)  
나중에 저녁 먹으러 가고 싶니? (Do you want to go for dinner later?)  
다른 사용자를 초대 할 수 있어요 (You can invite the others)

Taeyong hummed curiously. He hadn’t seen much of Jaemin since graduating from Uni, and it was rare for him to suggest dinner plans—or any plans, for that matter. Nonetheless, Taeyong was happy to hear from him, and quickly leaned over to show the texts to Johnny.

“Want to meet up with Jaemin tonight?” Taeyong asked. “I can invite Yuta, Mark, and Taeil. I’m sure they’d be ecstatic to see you.”

Johnny smiled warmly. “That sounds like a nice idea. Can we invite Hwiyoung, too? She’s kind of an honorary team member, now.”

Taeyong chuckled. He hadn’t spoken much to Hwiyoung, and he didn’t realize Johnny had any kind of relationship with her, but even so it would be kind to invite her. Hwiyoung, and someone else. “For that matter,” Taeyong started, “we should invite Max, too. He’s bent over backwards for you. It’s the least we can do.”

“It’ll be a proper party,” Johnny grinned, “just like the good old days.”

As it turned out, the party expanded more than expected, as Yuta brought Sicheng along—of course—and Mark invited Haechan. Taeyong had an apologetic look on his face as he approached Jaemin, who was waiting outside the restaurant, with the giant group in tow. Jaemin was dressed casually in a T-shirt and ripped jeans, and didn’t seem bothered to see everyone arrive.

“Hi, Jaeminnie,” Taeyong greeted him sheepishly, “hope you don’t mind I brought everyone. I didn’t expect the group to get this large.”

Jaemin smiled cheerily. “I said you could bring others. This is nice.”

Taeyong looked around. Oddly, Jeno was nowhere to be found. Jaemin and Jeno were closest to each other in Uni, and were the type of friends one could call ‘inseparable.’ They certainly saw less of each other due to their busy adult lives, but even so, Taeyong would’ve expected Jeno to have been invited.

“Is Jeno-ssi on his way?” Taeyong asked expectantly. Jaemin suddenly seemed a little squeamish and awkward, rubbing his hands together and shuffling his feet. He wouldn’t look Taeyong in the eyes.

“Uh, Jeno’s . . . He’s busy, tonight,” Jaemin mumbled. Taeyong squinted suspiciously—busy? It’s an understandable excuse, but Jeno could hardly be too busy for Jaemin at 7 PM on a Monday. Either way, it appeared he would not be coming, and that was that.

They went inside and sat at one of the large party tables. It was a popular hotpot restaurant that wasn’t yet busy due to the time, and so they were seated almost immediately. There was a lot of clamoring as menus were passed about, before it seemed to settle and conversation could begin. Jaemin still seemed weirdly shifty, like he had a lot on his mind. He was quiet.

“So, what’s Department 5 like without me?” Johnny asked amiably. The table went quiet for a moment as Mark, Yuta, and Taeil looked sad.

“It feels empty,” Mark said quietly. Haechan gave him a concerned and comforting glance. 

Yuta crossed his arms over his chest. “There’s supposed to be a new intern joining us, but there’s been a delay and he won’t arrive until later this week . . . And anyway, he could never replace you.”

“It’s just never going to be right without you there,” Taeil commented. “I really never imagined this would happen. I thought it would be us five against the world, forever.”

Johnny smiled. “It still is. I may not work for Daydream anymore, but I will always be part of Department 5, in spirit.”

It was at this point that Jaemin would normally say something like, “Way to make us feel left out, you old saps.” However, Jaemin stayed quiet, watching the scene without really seeing it. He seemed bored—miserable, even—completely trapped in his own head. Taeyong wanted to say something, but he had a feeling Jaemin didn’t want his condition to be brought to the attention of the whole table, so he held his tongue.

“Sicheng,” Taeyong said instead, “how are you since escaping China?”

Sicheng looked a little downcast. “It’s been hard. I’ve had to block my parents’ numbers because they wouldn’t stop calling and texting. Their messages were angry, and . . . abusive, in some ways. I think I can never go back to China . . . I’d be detained, in some way or another. But I have Yuta-yah. That’s all that matters, now.”

Hwiyoung was sitting in between Johnny and Max, and like Max, she looked awkward and out-of-place, squirming in her seat. Everyone at the table had history together—they had cried together, laughed together, graduated together, Taeyong had kissed some of them—but Hwiyoung and Max were left out. They were not ‘part of’ the group, for they had not been there since the beginning. They didn’t have the same connections, and therefore, not much to say.

Hwiyoung, however, appeared not to be the shy type. “Sorry, what’s happening with Yuta-ssi?” she asked, a perplexed look on her face, perhaps slightly annoyed that everyone seemed perfectly content leaving her out of the loop. 

“Nothing,” said Yuta, quickly. “It’s all resolved now. Maybe . . . someone should explain everything? From the beginning?”

It was quiet for a moment, as no one really wanted the monstrous task of explaining the whole story to a couple of late-comers. Eventually, Mark sat up straight and took a deep breath in. All eyes turned his way.

“Well, we’ve all known since the beginning that Yuta and Sicheng are all over each other, but even so, Taeyong was nervous to tell us that he’s gay because he thought we would judge him and that’s why he was a virgin for so long and he made a bet with Johnny that he’d lose his virginity in ninety days and during that time he and Chittaphon—who we call Ten—were getting pretty close and then Yuta finally admitted that he and Sicheng were seeing each other so Taeyong came out of the closet and admitted he had a crush on Ten and during that time Johnny started seeing this girl named Minsoo and did I mention Ten had a bad history with his last editor Soomi because he did which caused some turmoil in his relationship with Taeyong which led to Taeyong turning to his high school squeeze—rich Chinese bachelor Xukun—and losing his virginity to him but Xukun turned out to be a piece of cock so Taeyong turned back to Ten and they had sex—finally—and after that Johnny and Minsoo were dating and then Minsoo went to Johnny’s party and she had sex with Ten while he was drunk and she faked getting pregnant so Johnny got mad at Ten meanwhile Sicheng went to China and got trapped there because his parents are homophobic so Taeyong got Xukun to go get him and bring him back and then Ten and Johnny had a fight and Johnny got fired and Ten went to the hospital and now we’re here.” When he finished, he took a few gasping breaths, winded, looking like he might pass out. Finally, he added, “Did I miss anything?”

Johnny whistled, astonished. “Whew. Mark Lee, eyes everywhere.”

Max looked confused but also mildly disinterested, as most of that he already either knew or guessed. Hwiyoung was astonished, bewildered, and completely baffled all at once. Taeyong was giving Mark a look as if to say, “Come on, what the Hell, man?” as he’d just revealed a whole load of information that maybe should’ve been kept secret.

“Okay, I didn’t get most of that,” Hwiyoung finally said with a breathless exhale, “but . . . Taeyong is gay? And he’s fucking the author? For real?”

Taeyong squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. “It’s . . . a tad more complicated than that, but shortly, yes. Or at least I was? Honestly even I’m losing track at this point.”

Max looked a little disappointed. “Damn it, I owe Park Chanyeol money, now. Bastard was right.”

“Wait, how many people at work have you slept with?” Hwiyoung asked, searchingly. Then, she gasped. “You and Johnny are close! Johnny, have you ever—? With Taeyong-ssi?”

Johnny smirked slyly. “No. There have been times I’ve really wanted to, but no.”

Taeyong’s eyes widened, and he looked across the table at Johnny, paused mid-chew. “Oh, okay, even I didn’t know that.”

Mark and Haechan looked at each other with blown eyes, whistling dramatically. Johnny gave Taeyong a sensual wink, to which Taeyong rolled his eyes in response. Hwiyoung was surprisingly cool with it all, which caught Taeyong off-guard. He’d never taken Max for the homophobic type, but he didn’t know Hwiyoung as well, and was grateful she wasn’t reacting badly. She certainly was a curious individual.

“This is a weird dinner,” said Taeil, looking like the food had gone sour in his mouth. Taeyong decided it was time to change the subject.

“Well, Hwiyoung, what about you?” he asked, leaning his elbows on the tabletop. “You worked at Treble Publishing before your transfer. That makes you connected, in a weird way. What do you know about Kim Soo Mi?”

The table went deathly still for the umpteenth time in the past hour. Johnny exhaled harshly, puffing out his cheeks. Mark leaned over to Haechan and whispered in his ear: “Oof.”

Hwiyoung seemed perplexed at the fixation on that woman. “Well, not much, I’m afraid. At Treble, I worked with Departments four through nine, and at that time she’d already been moved to Department 2. Besides, she was on maternity leave for several months. In any case, I never spoke to her.”

Taeyong leaned even closer, intrigued. “Maternity leave?” he whispered. He remembered Chittaphon’s story about Sofia, his would-be daughter that he’d never met. Could it be . . . ?

“Yeah. She had a daughter. Named her . . . some English name, started with an ‘S.’ Never said who the father was,” Hwiyoung explained. “Nobody even knew she had a boyfriend. Apparently she mentioned a man at a point, a ‘Jung Sil,’ and people speculated it must be him. That’s all I know.”

“Sofia,” Taeyong breathed. 

“Yeah! That was it! ‘Sofia,’” Hwiyoung said, dazzled. “She never talked about her much. When asked, all her responses were menial and seemed forced. It was weird. She definitely didn’t seem like a new parent to me. Regardless, it’s none of my business. Wait . . . what does all this have to do with you guys?”

Even those from Department 5 seemed genuinely interested to hear the answer. Taeyong realized they had never heard of Sofia, and would have no idea what Hwiyoung is talking about. He felt a little guilty—was that supposed to be a secret? 

“It’s about Chittaphon,” Taeyong said slowly, carefully, picking his words. “Before coming to Daydream, he worked at Treble, with Soomi. They . . . had a relationship. A secret one, so don’t tell anybody. It ended badly right around the time Soomi got pregnant. That’s all I really know.”

Hwiyoung’s eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. “Wait! Do you think Chitta-ssi is the father?!”

Taeyong chuckled nervously. Secretly, he had his theories, but he wanted that kept on the down-low. “Uh, no, apparently Soomi told him at the time of their breakup that he’s not. That’s kind of why they broke up. Anyway, it doesn’t really matter now. They’re long since through.”

The rest of the dinner went, comparatively, normal. Mindless chatter was passed across, down, and up the table, dodging Jaemin, who was still weirdly quiet. He didn’t have much reaction to anything happening around him, almost as if he wasn’t hearing any of it. Taeyong was, at that point, itching for the dinner to end, so he could get the chance to talk to Jaemin alone.

As it turned out, he didn’t need that chance. As soon as everyone was standing up and putting on their coats, Jaemin approached Taeyong and tugged on his sleeve, whispering the first words he’d spoken in two hours: “Taeyong-hyung, can I talk with you? Privately?”

Taeyong turned to the rest of the group. “Go on without me, everyone, I’ll catch up in a second.”

The others nodded and left the restaurant in a two-by-two line—Johnny with Hwiyoung, Taeil with Max, Yuta with Sicheng, and Mark with Haechan. Taeyong turned to Jaemin, concern written all over his face, and finally got to ask what had been burning on his tongue all night: “What’s going on? You’ve been so quiet. Is something the matter?”

“I have something to ask you,” Jaemin said feebly. Taeyong leaned toward him curiously. “Taeyong-hyung, how . . . how did you find out you were gay? Like, how did you know?”

That was a loaded question Taeyong was not prepared for. Of all the things Taeyong might’ve expected Jaemin to say, that was not one of them. He couldn’t fathom why Jaemin would ask such a thing, and why he seemed so worked up. Nonetheless, Taeyong tried his best to form a response.

“I think I always knew I was different,” he began, thinking deeply. “I didn’t know what it was back then, but I knew something set me apart from my peers. Then, I got my first real crush, on . . . a boy. It took me a while to realize my admiration of him was more than just ‘friendly.’ Once I admitted it to myself, I guess I knew. It was a really hard time for me.” When he finished, Jaemin seemed more distraught, not less, so Taeyong added, “Why do you ask, Jaeminnie?”

Jaemin seemed spooked, like an exposed deer milliseconds before it darts into the safety of the forest. His hands were even shaking. His cheeks reddened, and his eyes went glassy. “I think . . . I might have a crush,” he said, meekly, almost inaudible, “on . . . a . . . boy . . .”

Taeyong’s heart ached. He knew exactly what that felt like—realizing for the first time that your love life will never be easy. Realizing you aren’t the same as everyone else, in a way many would view as immoral. At the same time, his heart felt warmed that Jaemin would have thought to talk to him about such a trivial thing. He felt like a real hyung.

Taeyong placed a hand gently on his shoulder. “Jeno?” he whispered. Jaemin went white, frozen like a snowman, avoiding Taeyong’s gaze, shuffling his feet. “Sorry to hit the nail on the head so quick,” Taeyong chuckled, “gaydar.”

Jaemin sniffled, a single tear straying down his cheek. “He’s my friend, my brother,” he said quietly, “but suddenly I can’t stop thinking about him. He’s in my head all the time, Hyung. When I’m close to him I feel nauseous, and I can’t talk as comfortably as I used to. What’s happened to me? What do I do?”

“How does Jeno feel?” he asked softly.

Jaemin shook his head fervently. “I don’t know, I haven’t asked. I haven’t talked to him about this. I can’t tell him, I can never tell him.”

“If you keep it all inside it’ll only boil over until it all comes exploding out,” Taeyong explained. “What if I talked to Jeno?”

Jaemin grabbed Taeyong by the shoulders and gripped him tightly, eyes desperately wild. “You can’t! You can’t tell him! Jeno-yah cannot know!”

“Relax,” Taeyong assured him, “I won’t tell him anything. Do you think I’m stupid? I know how to get information from people without revealing crucial information.”

Jaemin relaxed a little. “Can you?”

Taeyong nodded seriously. “I will.”

After, they left the restaurant together and joined the others. Nobody asked where they had been nor what they had been doing, supposing it best not to pry. Jaemin seemed to be in slightly higher spirits, even willing to join everyone for drinks. Throughout the night, Taeyong and Jaemin exchanged knowing and reassuring looks. Towards the end of the night, Taeyong sneakily shot a text to Jeno.

4월 23일, 9:54 오후  
제노씨 안녕 (Hi Jeno-ssi)  
태용이다 (It’s Taeyong)  
이번 주에 이용 가능합니까? (Are you available this week?)

***

Taeyong awoke the following morning to his phone buzzing. For once, he hadn’t drank himself into a stupor the night before, and thus his head didn’t feel like it was filled with lead. He rolled over and flipped his phone so it was face-up, checking what was making all the racket. It was a couple texts from Jeno.

4월 24일, 11:47 오전  
태용형 안녕하세요 ㅎㅅㅎ (Hello Taeyong-hyung ㅎㅅㅎ)  
목요일에 이용 가능해요 (I am available on Thursday)  
왜요? (Why?)

Taeyong didn’t want to be ominous, but he also couldn’t make it seem like he had some ulterior motive. So, he simply replied:

4월 24일, 11:49 오전  
이유없이 (No reason)  
목요일에 보자! (See you Thursday!)

He had called in sick to work again, still not quite feeling up to going—not until he knew Chittaphon was okay. That in mind, he was planning on visiting him, so he got himself out of bed, got dressed, and after a quick breakfast, made his way out the door.

He hadn’t received any sort of call or notification that Chittaphon had gotten better, or worse—not that he was owed a call, he isn’t family. Worry made his hands dance along the wheel of his Camry, and distracted him when he reached the hospital, making his search for parking take twice as long. When he finally found a space—a block and a half from the hospital—he got out and headed toward the giant, white building.

As he was crossing the courtyard, nearing the front doors, he caught sight of a woman bent over a toddler’s stroller, and as he got closer, he became ever more curious. There was a small girl in the stroller, likely no older than two and swathed in a pink blanket embroidered with the English letter ‘S,’ and she was making a big fuss. The woman, presumably her mother, was getting right in the girl’s face, index finger pointed, scolding her. Taeyong slowed as he got within a few feet of them, shamelessly eavesdropping.

“Would you just shut up?!” the mother was yelling, crossly. Taeyong flinched a little—that’s a bit rude, isn’t it? To speak to a child that way? She went on: “Shut up, for once! You’re giving mommy a headache! I’ll buy you warm milk, or whatever, if you just put a cork in it!”

The child went on fussing. The mother huffed loudly, pinching the bridge of her nose and squeezing her eyes shut. Then, she gave up, flipped her hair back over her shoulder, took the handles of the stroller, and went on walking. As they passed, Taeyong looked at the mother, and she glanced back at him. She was a nuclear beauty, with well-mannered clothes and expertly-applied makeup; wavy brown hair and deep eyes one could get lost in. She had long lashes, and rouge on her plump lips, as well as manicured fingernails on each of her pretty hands. Taeyong observed her soft face, eyes latching onto a prominent mole under her left eye. He felt strange, looking at her for that split second—he felt like he knew her, though he’d never seen her before in his life.

She stopped, mistaking his searching look for one of judgement. “Sorry about this one,” she said, motioning to the stroller, “she gets like this sometimes. Babies, huh?”

She had a sweet, sharp voice, and a bureaucratic way of speaking. Taeyong, while taken aback, jumped into reality and dipped his head shyly. “Yeah, babies. Don’t worry about it.”

She smiled gratefully at him, and continued on her way. He watched her go, watched her stop after a few steps and lean back down to stick her head into the stroller, where the girl was still fussing. He watched her as her face turned angry and she whisper-yelled, “Sofia, I said shut the fuck up! This instant!” Taeyong’s blood ran cold. Sofia? Could it be . . . ?

She straightened, looked around, and continued on, crossing the street, and then she was gone. Taeyong felt strange, like he’d seen something he wasn’t supposed to. He walked stiffly and quickly into the hospital, through the sliding doors and to the faces of hurting people waiting to see a nurse. He didn’t need directions nor permission, so he simply walked straight into ICU and opened door #106.

At the sight of Chittaphon, Taeyong almost fell to his knees. His eyes immediately welled up with tears and his cheeks got ruddy, sobs shaking his chest and making him blubber. The author was seated upright, hooked up to less tubes, and had a tray of food in front of him that he was gradually munching on. He looked a little surprised to see Taeyong suddenly barge in, tears all over his face, but that surprise quickly turned to warmth.

“Hi, Taeyongie,” he said, in English.

Taeyong chuckled happily, but it came out more like extra sobs, and his nose started to run. He shuffled over to Chittaphon’s side and sat on a rolly chair next to his bed, sniffling and shoulders shaking.

“Why so sad?” asked Chittaphon, cutely curious. He seemed aloof, completely his usual self, as if he’d never been comatose at all. The only indications of his ordeal were the ugly teal medical gown they put him in and the IV needle sticking out of his arm. Oh, and the abysmal hospital food.

Taeyong smiled and wiped his face. “I’m just relieved you’re awake. I didn’t know if I was going to lose you . . .”

Chittaphon smiled brilliantly, eyes arching into pretty crescents. “Ah, no biggie. This isn’t the first time something like this has happened.”

Taeyong was struck for a moment, his eyes narrowing. “‘No biggie’? We found you six inches from death! Maybe it’s not the first time, but it will be the last. You need to do something about your alcoholism.”

Then, it was Chittaphon’s turn to be struck, as Taeyong got to see the reaction of an alcoholic first being told he’s an alcoholic. He remembered having a similar conversation with Johnny, once, when he became addicted to cigarettes. They’d had a fight, which ended in Taeyong calling Johnny a ‘chainsmoker,’ and Johnny reeling back as if that was the most ridiculous claim he’d ever heard—only to slowly come to the realization that Taeyong was right. It was that conversation that drove Johnny to quit. Now, Taeyong saw that incident mirrored in Chittaphon, and he realized that the author was a lot more like Johnny than anyone could’ve expected.

“I’ve always been a responsible drinker,” Chittaphon argued, looking a little offended. “It’s only because of the recent events that I went overboard. I was depressed, and I drank a lot without even realizing it was a lot. That’s all.”

Taeyong shook his head. “No. You weren’t sad that time you blacked out and slept with Minsoo.” He saw Chittaphon wince, visibly, but he went on, “Or the time you were tipsy and kissed me. Or that time you came into my hotel room and sucked my dick! Yeah, that’s right, I smelled the alcohol on your breath that day. You were piss-drunk, weren’t you?”

Chittaphon could do nothing but stare, mouth agape, eyes widely appalled at his junior speaking to him in such a way—but he had nothing to say, no defense, nothing to retaliate with. So, he slowly closed his mouth and said nothing.

“And if what you say is true, and this isn’t the first time this has happened,” Taeyong continued ruthlessly, “then my point is made! No ‘responsible drinker’ has been hospitalized on multiple accounts for being fucking drunk!”

Chittaphon shut his eyes slowly, inhaling deeply, relenting. “I hear you, Taeyongie,” he said quietly, “loud and clear.” He sounded chipped, defeated, like a window pane with a tiny crack in the corner—just quitting. 

“I just . . .” Taeyong exhaled loudly. “I worry, okay? You have no idea what it felt like, seeing you passed out cold on the floor in a pool of your own vomit. I don’t want anything like that to happen again.”

“I know,” Chittaphon sighed, “it won’t.”

It was quiet for a few long, stretching moments. Chittaphon seemed to have lost his appetite and had pushed his tray of food away. Taeyong felt frustrated—he didn’t like to yell, especially about something so trivial. Then, Chittaphon looked up calmly and muttered, “We’ve got company, by the way.”

Surprised, Taeyong turned to see the paramedic from before, Ko Shinji, standing in the doorway. She waved curtly, waggling her fingers. 

“How long have you been standing there?” Taeyong asked, slightly embarrassed.

“Long enough,” she smirked. “I heard yelling so I came to check it out. Everything okay in here?”

Taeyong scratched awkwardly behind his ear. “Yeah. Everything’s fine.”

“Good,” Shinji mused, turning out to the hallway. “I paged the doctor, he should be down soon for a routine check-up. Then Mr. Leechaiyapornkul should be free to go. Oh, and tell Johnny-ssi to come see me, I’m waiting.”

Then she was gone. Taeyong blinked a few times, looking where she disappeared, before he breathed out a puff of air and turned back to Chittaphon. They looked at each other in silence, unsure what else to say. 

“Have you . . . had any other visitors recently?” Taeyong tried. Part of him wanted to know if Soomi had, in fact, been at the hospital. He couldn’t guess why she would want to see Chittaphon after all this time, and there were a million other reasons she could have been there—or perhaps she was never there at all, and that woman was just some stranger. 

Chittaphon looked at the ceiling in thought. “The first people I saw when I woke up were the doctor, this dude nurse, and that paramedic. Then Johnny came to see me a bit earlier, and now you. That’s it.”

Thankfully, Chittaphon didn’t seem to be lying. Taeyong silently felt relieved—Soomi had not seen Chittaphon, and he had not seen her. For all Taeyong knew, she could be on the other side of Gangnam. He thought about asking what she looked like, but he didn’t want to stir up any emotions, so he kept the moment outside the hospital to himself.

“Mr. Leechaiyapornkul.” The door opened, and a man in blue scrubs and a long white coat walked in, announcing himself. Trailing behind was a nervous-looking male nurse carrying a clipboard and pen. Chittaphon warmly greeted the doctor, and Taeyong got the sense they had formed some kind of connection during his stay.

The doctor approached and began checking Chittaphon’s vitals, instructing the nurse to write things down on the clipboard as he went. Strangely, Taeyong wasn’t asked to leave. Chittaphon kept making bland conversation with the doctor, who seemed to be barely listening. Taeyong observed the male nurse—a young, cute boy with shaggy hair and several small moles dotting his face, which had a dutiful and wondrous expression. He had a nametag on his scrubs, which read: 인턴: 김태형 (INTERN: Kim Tae Hyung).

“Everything seems okay,” said the doctor finally, straightening up. “You should be good to go,”—he turned to Taeyong—“will you be taking him home?”

“Uh,” Taeyong mumbled, caught off-guard, “sure, I can do that. Are you certain he’s fine?”

The doctor nodded surely. He seemed young to be in such a position, with a soft face and a haircut that wouldn’t suit anyone over thirty-five. Still, with his glasses and the sage look in his eyes, he definitely appeared knowledgeable beyond his years—someone with a high IQ, like Sherlock Holmes. On the nametag clipped to the pocket of his jacket, large text depicted: 김남준 — 중환자실 지도자님 (KIM NAM JOON — Head of ICU).

“Doctor Kim,” Chittaphon said sweetly, “this is my friend Lee Taeyong. He’s also my editor. Taeyongie, these are the wonderful people who took care of me, Doctor Kim and his intern, Nurse Kim.”

Taeyong looked at Doctor Kim and Nurse Kim with a lost expression. “There really aren’t many names in South Korea, are there?” he asked sarcastically, under his breath. Then, he bowed gratefully and said, “Thank you for taking good care of my friend.”

Doctor Kim dipped his head back. “It’s our job to save the ill. I will warn you, Mr. Leechaiyapornkul is on a few kinds of medication at the moment, so I would advise he not be left alone tonight. Furthermore, if there are any problems, you can call me at this number—my name is Kim Namjoon, but my intern Kim Taehyung may answer in my place. Otherwise, you can go. His clothes are on the table there.”

Taeyong took the slip of paper that was handed to him—it was the number of the hospital, along with the extension that was likely for the ICU department. Then, he looked at Chittaphon once more. He hadn’t noticed it before, but the author did seem a bit glassy behind the eyes, and had a stupid smile on his face. Perhaps the medications had just started to kick in.

With that, the doctor left with the intern in tow. Chittaphon seemed giddy all of a sudden, as he threw the covers off himself and jumped out of bed. The doctor had removed the IV needle and placed a cotton ball held on with medical tape in the crook of his elbow, and instructed he keep his arm bent for a couple of minutes—though it seemed Chittaphon had forgotten about that.

“Hey, take it easy, Ten-hyung,” Taeyong grabbed him by the shoulders to steady him when he started to teeter. “You’ve been in bed for a couple of days, and you only just got better. You need to take it slow. What did they put you on?”

Chittaphon shrugged sloppily. “Dunno. Some stuff for pain and migraines because my head hurted. I hope it’s opioids. Ooh! Like morphine!”

“Okay, crackhead, just put your clothes on,” Taeyong muttered, steering the suddenly-childlike Chittaphon towards the table where his clothes sat neatly-folded. 

Chittaphon turned around and pouted. “Why? I’m wearing clothes. I just want to gooooo! I’ve been here for a thousand years!”

Taeyong tugged on the hideous hospital gown. “This belongs to the nice doctors. Okay? Also, your ass is showing.”

“What’s wrong? You don’t like my butt? I have a nice butt,” Chittaphon argued, turning around and patting his own buttcheek. Taeyong inhaled a long breath and almost choked on the smells of rubber and medicine.

“I love your butt,” he said exasperatedly, “but most random civilians outside will not. They’ll put you in a loony bin if you run around with your ass out. Will you please put pants on? God, how strong are these meds . . . ?”

“It’s morphine! Or codeine! Ooh! Or heroiiiiiiine!” Chittaphon squealed. Taeyong had to hold his arms to keep him still.

“I highly doubt Doctor Kim gave you heroine. Now PLEASE put your clothes on. Then we can go home and you can have all the tea you want,” Taeyong promised. Chittaphon seemed to light up at that.

“Yay tea!” he celebrated. Then, he cuddled up to Taeyong and looked at him all doe-eyed, eyelashes fluttering. “Taeyong-ah can we have chocolate? Pleeeeease? Ten likes chocolate!”

Taeyong restrained himself from rolling his eyes. “If you put your clothes on, I’ll buy you chocolate. Okay? Just get dressed, for the love of God.”

It had been three hours by the time Taeyong finally parked the Camry. For the first time, he parked right outside Chittaphon’s penthouse, because there was no way he could get the drugged-up author to walk four blocks in a straight line. He got out and collected the five grocery bags filled with chocolates that he’d been forced to pay for, then opened the passenger-side door so the sleepy and loopy Chittaphon could crawl out. Taeyong had never felt more like a mother in his life.

Chittaphon insisted on holding hands, so Taeyong resigned his right arm to hold up the entire weight of all five bags while he led Chittaphon, fingers intertwined, into the house. Johnny had been around at some point to clean up all the mess on the floor, so thankfully there was no dried-up puke puddle by the couch. Chittaphon ran to the sofa and faceplanted on it, giggling stupidly. Taeyong, by that point, had had more than enough of his drugged antics, but through his annoyance he couldn’t help but find the author to be quite adorable in his state.

“Here, eat,” he muttered, dropping one of the bags on the couch and taking the other four to the kitchen. He then made a steaming cup of green tea and returned to find Chittaphon with his hands and face covered in chocolate. He set the tea down on the coffee table with an amused chuckle.

Unfortunately, the tea was never touched. Chittaphon got sleepy and haphazardly pushed the grocery bag on the floor so he could cuddle up to Taeyong and close his eyes. “Taeyong-ah,” he mumbled, almost inaudibly, “you know I like you a lot? Have I told you that?”

Taeyong gently patted him on the head and exhaled slowly, sadly. “No. You haven’t. And for good reason.”


End file.
